Sally-Anne Perks and the Power Vacuum
by Sam Tailor
Summary: Because killing the Big Bad is the easy part.
1. Overture

_May 9th, 1998_

Rain fell on SW1. Lamplight shone weakly across the black gates of a dead end street. No red buses drove past, no umbrellas craned for a view. Georgian buildings whispered among themselves memories of Empire.

In a large room, deep under Whitehall, a woman dressed all in black was speaking with frighteningly precise diction to a large man in purple robes.

" — eighth meeting in seven days, Kingsley. I understand you are busy; we are all busy. We are all dealing with more than we can handle." She did not turn to the red-haired man seated to her right. "How many funerals today, Arthur."

"Six."

"How many still left?"

Arthur Weasley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Through the window, he could see the BBC tower in the distance and just a hint of the Thames off to the left. The sun was glinting on the water, even though it must have been well past midnight. The corners of his mouth edged down; he didn't like the Magical Maintenance Department taking liberties. Didn't they have anything better to do?

"Eight. They should be done — we should be finished by Monday."

Kingsley Shacklebolt breathed out heavily through his nose.

"I understand the delicacy of the situation, Arthur, but you've shut down the Ministry — don't interrupt, John; you know I'm right — during perhaps the most important week of its existence. We need to get things back to normal. We need to restore some semblance of order. Wasn't there a more, I don't want to say expeditious — ".

"Are you suggesting, Minister, a mass grave for the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts?" Minerva McGonagall's voice was barely a whisper, yet it filled the room. "For Arthur's son? For Lavender Brown?"

"Of course not. I'm sorry, Arthur. Look, I've been in this office," here he nodded towards the open door that led from the conference room; Arthur could barely see a desk beneath the piles of papers, "for only a few days.

"But the Ministry is, well, we don't exactly have the trust of the people right now, do we. Rufus is dead. Pius is dead. All people see are the funerals, our failures. It's starting to look like chaos out there. Voldemort's dead, for real this time, finally, but I feel like we won the war only to be in danger of losing the peace."

"That is precisely why you need to let us get back to work! Let Arthur get through these next few days and back to keeping wizards from doing Merlin knows what with Muggle technology. Horace and I need to be at Hogwarts; if we cannot keep the peace between the houses, the school will not survive. And I will not allow that to happen. Kingsley, you are the Minister of Magic. Advice is one thing, but you need to start acting on your own."

There was a silence. Arthur looked slowly around the long, mahogany table. It was far too large for this meeting; only five of the two dozen or so heavy chairs were taken. The empty seats and the size of the room itself seemed to mock them, as though they were children playing at the grownups' table. But the adults were all dead. He could still see them, sitting in those empty seats, watching them with disapproval. Albus. Moody. Sirius. Severus. Remus. Men of action.

Kingsley adjusted his pillbox hat and looked embarrassed, but kept going.

"How are the Slytherins?"

"Most of them have returned to school." Horace Slughorn looked pleased at this. "But they aren't the problem. It's the other houses." He coughed nervously.

"Last week, students were fighting to kill each other. Now, we've trying to get them to go back to classes together. We've had to arrange for a rotation in the dining room. As for fights in the hallways — " Horace trailed off.

"And the surviving Death Eaters?"

"We have a problem there, sir, and no mistake." The well-built man to Kingsley's right spoke slowly. "You may have acted too hastily in dismissing the dementors from Azkaban."

"Two successful escapes, John. They couldn't be trusted. Besides, Mr. Potter insisted and, given the circumstances, I felt he deserved a request."

"I understand the emotion, sir, but did he think it through? I mean, the Death Eaters have to be kept somewhere. Exile is too dangerous. And we aren't about to execute them, are we." Auror John Dawlish let his tone convey his opinion of that decision.

Horace leaned forward as far as he could manage, gripping the arms of the leather-upholstered chair. "Yaxley. Rookwood. Rowle. Dolohov. Travers. Where exactly are they?"

Kingsley stepped over the Auror's reply.

"They're contained. We have them at one of the old manors. Wands have been destroyed; Ollivander saw to that personally. Anti-spell protections are in place. What we have left of the Aurors, almost, are on guard. The good news is, who's going to break them out."

"The Malfoys. The Carrows." Minerva answered the rhetorical question.

John shook his head slowly. "It's not them I worry about. The Malfoys surrendered their wands and have locked themselves into their home. Licking their wounds, sir, if I may presume to judge. And the Carrows, well, they're a nasty bit and no mistake, but harmless — unless you're in their power, that is. We haven't even bothered to hold them. Took their wands and placed them under house arrest. They aren't the kind to start trouble."

The Auror emphasized the "start" with a note of contempt. Kingsley turned to him.

"What about Macnair?"

"We're moving him there tonight." John caught the frown on Arthur's face and continued, although he had intended to stop there.

"It takes time, sir. After what happened to Aberforth, we don't want any mistakes. No. We move them one at a time. We move them at night and by different routes. Three Aurors present."

"Disbanding the dementors so quickly may have been a mistake," admitted Minerva. "I don't know what other choice we had."

"But, Minister, you still need to decide what to do with these men," protested Horace. "Individually, they're dangerous. Together, even without wands and under guard, how long before they try something. If the general public knew the situation..."

"The only people who know are either in this room," interrupted Kingsley, "or the few Aurors I have left. Let's keep it that way." His eyes closed for a moment. "If there's nothing else, as Minerva suggested, you may return to your duties."

Arthur coughed hesitantly.

"Sir, a reminder about my proposal for Ministry recruitment. We are too few." A tense silence descended on the room again, and Arthur lowered his voice, forcing the other wizards to lean in to catch his words. "So many of the staff have died, we're hollowed out just as our power and authority are coming under question."

Kingsley looked vexed. "You know I will have to go to the Wizengamot, given the extent of your request, Weasley." A ripple of exhaustion passing over his face. "But yes, for now tell the departments that they should try to fill the roles of those we lost. I leave it to you."

The Minister stood up. Arthur watched silently as McGonagall, Slughorn, and Dawlish left the room, ducking through the recently installed Thief's Downfall. Ms. Granger's idea, but then, she hadn't had to pay for it. He looked over to see Shacklebolt watching him apprehensively.

"What happened to Aberforth?"

Arthur could see the Minister avoid flinching, but there was fear in his voice. "Your ears only, Arthur. He was transporting Rookwood. Rookwood managed to escape. Aberforth is dead." He didn't give Arthur a chance to interrupt. "I know what Rookwood did to your family, Arthur. We'll get him back. But right now, what's important is that no one knows. We need to keep it that way. The Ministry looks weak enough as it is. If people knew — you must promise me to tell no one." The empty room seemed to absorb his voice.

Arthur nodded his head in the silence and walked out. He felt wet for a moment, then cold, then very still. The men of action had died solving the old problems, he thought. Where would the new problems find their heroes?

* * *

"No, not that way. Did you do the first pass to look for the repetitions and patterns we discussed? OK, great. Now, have you triaged — have you compared just the last two spells performed by each wand?"

Arun could hear Zhu shake her head through the office wall, the trainee's hair was so long. She'd only been on the job for a couple weeks. It made him feel like a seasoned pro with his three months of experience, hearing Sally-Anne get frustrated with someone else for a change. He grinned and leaned over in his chair to peek around the corner of the door.

The office he saw would have been small for one person; there was barely room for both the two tiny desks that had been pushed together and the people sitting at them. Sam, sitting at the far desk, glanced up as Arun peered in. He looked like a man grown used to suffering, older by far than the others. Facing Sam, with her back to Arun, sat Zhu, staring down at the monthly records from Wand Screening. Standing over her, hovering in the exact manner Arun still had nightmares about, was Sally-Anne.

It wasn't that Sally-Anne looked imposing, Arun thought. Mafalda Hopkirk's junior officer was barely older than he was and only a year older than Zhu. And, Arun conceded to himself, if someone had described Sally-Anne to him, he would have laughed at the idea of her being intimidating. His boss wasn't particularly tall and she wasn't particularly slender. Her clothes were rumpled and out of date. She wore glasses, not prescription-less ones as an affectation like some people did who tried to be cool by aping Potter, but librarian frames that held lenses thick enough to distort her face.

And none of it mattered, thought Arun. Sally-Anne didn't try to present well. She didn't try to impress people. And when she was around Mafalda, she sometimes seemed to fade into the background. But when it came to the job, when it came to making sure her trainees didn't mess up, she was fire and brimstone. That drive was puzzling, because it meant she was trying to be _something_. Bur what?

His nascent idea popped like a soap bubble as Sally-Anne noticed where Sam was looking. She turned quickly.

"Aren't you supposed to be finishing a draft of that report?"

Arun groaned and turned back to his desk — that was a laugh; he's seen plates at the British Museum with more surface area — which, along with Zhu's, hunched in the corridor against the office's outer wall, trying not to get noticed. Or run into by any of the other Ministry workers on Level Two.

Sally-Anne stepped into the corridor and sat down at Zhu's desk. "Did Philip give you any grief this morning along with the screening results?" She looked intently over at Arun.

"Other than about having to work on a Saturday? Not really. He just laughed and asked if we were still wasting our time now that the Death Eaters were all captured."

"But Alice's running the tests again? They've picked back up after the Battle of Hogwarts?"

"Hooray for institutional imperative, I guess," Arun replied, nodding. "Wizards are used to being scheduled to come in and get their wands checked, Alice's used to screening them with Prior Incantato, and Philip's used to updating the official list of the spells each wand has performed in the last month."

"And you're used to getting them from him and compiling." There was a wry grin on Sally-Anne's face, so Arun mirrored it.

"You bet, boss. Only not this month, I guess. How's Zhu picking it up?"

"What was your reaction when you graduated Hogwarts and they informed you that you would need to submit your wand every month so that every spell it had cast could be recorded and analyzed by the Ministry?"

Typical Sally-Anne, that, thought Arun. Answer a question with a question. And not an easy question. He could respond with some politic answer informed by hindsight, but instead he took a moment to remember the person he had been when he'd learned of Wand Screening. It frightened him sometimes how quickly something went from being shocking to being normal. Like Voldemort being dead. A week ago, he couldn't have imagined ever getting used to that. But already the fact had faded to something irrelevant, dull.

"I hated it." Arun decided to be honest. It was probably a common enough response. "But it also explained a lot."

"Like what?" Arun noticed that Zhu had turned slightly towards them, listening in even while she continued to compare spells cast by different wands.

"Well, why wizards don't abuse their power more often, for one."

Sally-Anne nodded. "That's good. If the Ministry was only reactive, if we relied on Ms. Hopkirk, Sam, and myself in the Improper Use of Magic Office, and Mr. Perkins and Mr. Weasley in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office, to stop every wizard only after she went rogue, it would be a disaster."

"No wonder we don't have enough manpower," Zhu chimed in. Sally-Anne gave her a look and Zhu spun her back to them again.

"The slacker at my desk isn't wrong. Knowing the spells every wizard is casting is not only efficient in identifying possible trouble, but also acts as a deterrent. Otherwise, Sam couldn't devote his enormously valuable time to getting kids into trouble."

Arun couldn't tell if she was trying to be funny or cutting, but Sally-Anne might have been speaking about Quidditch for all the reaction she got out of Sam. None.

"But there's a better answer." Sally-Anne's magnified eyes were back on Arun. He froze.

"Ms. Perks, I think, uh, I think I have something." Sally-Anne went back into her office and looked at the two columns that Zhu was pointing at.

"Red flag," remarked Sally-Anne. "And last month with the war there were no screenings. What about February? Yaxley was still doing them, huh. No spells cast by either wand?" Sally-Anne was silent for a moment and Arun and Zhu looked at each other apprehensively.

"The particulars. Thank you. Mr. Patel, you're with me. Good work, Ms. Lang."

Once outside the Ministry, Arun's heart rate accelerated. This was only his second time in the field, other than for training. A promising sign.

Sally-Anne waited until a bus went past, watched a group of tourists outside Downing Street, and then spoke without turning to look at him.

"Do you see Philip's mistake? No? There's no reason you would. But do you remember your visit to Ollivander's? You would have been, what, ten? Eleven? Did he say anything, well, peculiar?"

Arun did remember. He'd been terrified, a small boy whose parents were ashamed of their heavy accents, mesmerized by an old man who reeked of fanaticism. He swallowed.

"He said he remembered every wand he's ever sold."

"Correct." Sally-Anne sounded amused, which Arun knew by now meant he'd done well. "But don't be too impressed with my prodigious feats of deduction. Or worse yet, illegal Legilimency; Ollivander is notorious for that hoary line. But it means every wand is unique. Length, wood, core: material and origin. So if two wands are checked and reveal the exact same sequence of spells, it means — ".

"They're the same wand!" Arun cut her off with the realization.

"Think before you answer." Sally-Anne started walking towards Trafalgar Square. "There are three possible explanations. First, coincidence. But these two wands each performed the same 27 spells in April and, even assigning approximate probabilistic weights to every possible spell, I believe we can safely dismiss coincidence." She spoke and walked quickly and Arun was focusing on keeping up, in both ways, too much to be sure he'd heard humor in her last line.

"Second, as you said, someone is concealing their activities by substituting another's wand for screening. And this is something Philip should have recognized, if he were noting wand descriptions properly. Lax."

She ran a hand affectionately over one of the bronze lions guarding Nelson's Column, then pulled out the piece of paper Zhu had handed her.

"But there is a third option." She seized Arun's arm.

"A trap." They vanished.

* * *

Arun took a step to balance himself and turned to look at Sally-Anne. They were just outside the tube at Golders Green. He understood why it was safer to Disapparate in crowds; no one believed what they saw, especially when no one else reacted. But if a person saw someone who was standing alone vanish, well, that tended to cause the kind of trouble that required Obliviators.

"'A trap?' Someone's feeling melodramatic today."

But Sally-Anne was already walking towards a coffee shop at the intersection. Arun scrambled after her.

"What else does Wand Screening explain?"

"What?"

"You said Wand Screening keeps the actions of wizards in line. What else does it do?"

Arun had anticipated this question, so he was able to answer it immediately; he was nervous any hesitation would make her think he was deciding whether or not to give what he knew was the right answer. He was afraid of her thinking him stupid, but if she started to think he was trying to manipulate her, trying to only give answers that made her think favorably of him, he was finished.

"It prevents wizards from practicing."

"What kind of practice?"

"The kind necessary to become powerful. If some wizard came in and his wand showed three thousand castings of Stupefy, there would be serious questions asked. And not in Parliament."

"So it's good we have Wand Screening." She turned into Helenslea Avenue and started examining the houses for numbers.

"Absolutely. If wizards could practice any spells in secret until they were masters, and then use them, the power they'd have without Ministry oversight, the danger for abuse by bad apples, or even conspiracy! But the Ministry, working with Ollivander, can use this tool to prevent that."

"So the Ministry has to have the power to keep wizards from gaining power. And that's a good thing."

"Yes. I mean, that kind of government power is necessary to keep everyone safe, even Muggles like my parents."

"This is the first address. Mark Regan." She reached up to clean her glasses, turning to look at Arun for the first time since they'd apparated.

"And Arun, either you can conceive of a Minister being elected by the Wizengamot, or even a member of our office being appointed, whom you wouldn't trust with that power, or you have a very poor imagination."

She looked up at the house appraisingly. "Half four. He should still be at work. I'll knock, we'll do a little B&E, surprise him when he comes home, lean a little, home by six, Bob's your uncle. Place your bets, but address like this my money's on him having gone native and being the patsy for the other wand. Paul Church." She went up to the front door and knocked authoritatively.

"Unless it is a trap, of course."

* * *

Arun, after waiting for a minute, stepped forward, wand ready for the Alohomora. He nearly dropped it when a soft bell rang, as though they were at a shop, and the door opened to reveal a young woman, quite pretty, and neatly dressed in slim jeans and a white blouse. She looked at Sally-Anne for a moment and then at Arun, but the wand was out of sight by then.

"Let me guess. Canvassing. We're strictly Labour. Thank you. Good day."

Sally-Anne recovered before the door closed. "We're here about Mr. Regan."

Arun was startled to see how quickly the woman's expression went from slightly impolite dismissal to extreme concern.

"Is Mark all right? Has there been an accident?"

"Ah, so you are the girlfriend. Ms… Ms…" Sally-Anne gestured to Arun for the name. He didn't know it. Of course he didn't know it. She had to know he didn't know it, right?

"Sue. Susan. Susan Williams."

"Yes. That's right. Ms. Williams. We'll tell you what we can about what's happened to Mr. Regan — Mark." Here Sally-Anne smiled at the stranger and Arun made a note of the cold reading. Another wizard would probably have already Confunded the woman, he thought.

"But first we need to ask you a few questions."

"Oh God. Oh God. Of course." Susan stood there, nonplussed.

How long would it take for her to move, wondered Sally-Anne, if I didn't prompt her? She looked at the woman, past her into the house, and then back at the woman.

"Forgive me, please come in. Watch the step. Which branch did you say you were with?" She showed them into a tastefully finished living room. Two couches, off white. A black coffee table between them. Over the mantle was a large mirror, and in the mantle's left corner a slender glass vase with a white orchid. There were no pictures on the eau de nil walls.

"We haven't. Yet." Sally-Anne sat down heavily on one of the couches and loosened her tie slightly in order to undo the top button of her shirt. "Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Oh, of course." Ms. Williams had just begun to sit down, but she awkwardly got to her feet again.

"That's all right. My colleague can get it." Arun took the hint and smiled reassuringly before stepping into the kitchen he could see down the hall. "Now, how long have you know Mr. Regan?"

Ms. Williams watched Arun until he was out of sight and frowned.

"Ms. Williams." The young woman blinked and looked back at Sally-Anne, who repeated the question.

"Oh, it feels like forever. He's a wonderful man. And you still haven't told me what this is about."

"How did you meet Mr. Regan?" asked Sally-Anne. Arun smiled; he could still hear them, if a bit muffled. He fetched down a glass and began to fill it slowly from the tap.

"He rescued me." Ms. Williams laughed at the memory. "It's a wonderful story. Mark is incredible. I'm lucky to have him. Now, if you would just — "

"What the hell."

Arun froze. That had been a man's voice. Loud. Angry. He hadn't come past Arun and the front door hadn't been opened. Mark Regan was a wizard, but how had he known to Apparate home at this moment? Had the woman somehow signaled him? Arun quietly turned off the tap, put the glass down in the sink, and, feeling a sense of deja-vu, peaked around the corner to look at Sally-Anne. She was still sitting on the couch, looking up at someone Arun couldn't see.

"Mark, this woman was just asking about you. I told her what a wonderful boyfriend you are, but — "

The male voice cut her off.

"Be quiet."

The woman immediately shut her mouth.

"What are you doing in my house." It didn't sound like a question, but Sally-Anne answered calmly.

"Paul Church."

Arun started to inch his way back towards the living room. He knew Sally-Anne could see him out of the corner of her eye, but she kept looking steadily forward. Arun could guess where Susan and Mark were sitting and standing, respectively. He stopped just out of sight.

"He did too many spells, didn't he. That bloody fool, I warned him." The hardwood floor creaked as Mark took a step towards Sally-Anne. "Look. I don't want trouble. It's better this way, trust me. She's happier. Loves it. Loves me. Just look at her." Sally-Anne did, slowly and deliberately. There was a tiny whisper of sound.

"Not an Auror, are you." Arun heard both triumph and menace in the voice. "Just some silly trainee foolish enough to let me get the drop on her." Arun drew his wand and pointed it above the head of his boss and to the left. He wondered if Mark could hear his heart beating. He stopped breathing.

"I bet your department head doesn't even know you're here. Do they?"

Sally-Anne slowly pushed her glasses back up her nose.

"Now."

"Expulso!" shouted Arun. The glass vase exploded and the green light that shot across the room hit the wall where it had stood, just above and to Sally Anne's right.

"Sectumsempra."

Sally-Anne, wand drawn, was still seated on the couch as Arun rushed into the room. He followed her eyes. Laying on the hardwood floor was a well-dressed man in a gray business suit. A short distance away, holding a wand, was an arm in a gray sleeve. The gray suit was slowly turning black where the arm should have been.

Susan Williams opened her mouth and made what sounded like a strangled cough. Her hands gripped the couch; her knuckles were as white as its cushions. Her eyes were so wide as they stared as Mark that Arun noticed their curvature.

"Where did he come from?" Mark looked over at Arun, and then back to Sally-Anne, utterly confused. He tried to sit up, but lost his balance as he reached for his wand.

"Azkaban isn't even open any more. Paul gets a copy of the Daily Prophet. Likes to stay informed. Bugger at proper wand care, though." He laughed weakly.

Sally-Anne looked at Arun. "Healer. St Mungo's. Now."

Arun closed his eyes. Destination. Determination. Deliber — .

* * *

The sun still colored the bricks on the higher floors of the houses on Daleham Gardens as Sally-Anne neared home. She checked the time, her key pausing halfway to the front door. Just gone six. Late, but not seriously. Not that it mattered, but still. She took the stairs deliberately and let herself into the small flat on the second floor.

Everything was just as she'd left it that morning. Her bicycle still stood against the wall next to the door. In the kitchen, the morning's dishes were still slumped in the sink. And, at the small yellow kitchen table, her father was still trying to finish The Times crossword. The rest of the paper sat on the other chair. She picked it up and sat down.

"Hi dad."

Surprised, he looked up.

"Hello, love. Didn't hear you come in." He was tall and slender, neatly dressed, with thinning white hair he kept pushing down behind his left ear. He watched her get up and check the cupboards and the refrigerator. He noticed the clock on the wall above the sink. "Look at the time. You'd better see your mother; you know how she hates waiting."

"Have you eaten anything today?" Sally-Anne asked. She pulled out a bowl and a box of cereal.

"It's just, I was struggling a bit with this one, you see." Sheepishly, he gestured at the paper.

"I know, I know." She placed a full bowl and spoon on the table. "Here, eat this for now. I'll go to the market and make us something decent. Then maybe we can take a walk."

"You know how your mother feels about that." He was already shaking his head. "It's so dark out, not safe." He stared off, his eyes unfocused, as though remembering something. "She loves me very much, that's why she gets upset when I do something dangerous."

"Look, I'll be right back. For now, eat. You need to eat, dad."

"You're a good daughter. I tell her that, you are, I do." Sally-Anne stood there a moment longer until he'd started to slowly munch the cereal and then took a deep breath before walking into the smaller of the two bedrooms at the back of the flat.

Her mother was laying across the twin bed, but she got up as Sally-Anne came in. "Well, look who decided to finally show. Hope I wasn't keeping you from anything important at your precious job."

"It's been a long day, mom. Can we not do this again?"

"So rude. And after I raised you to be a proper young lady, too. I never would have believed my own child could treat me like this." She gestured dramatically to the bed. "I've been laying here, waiting for you, but you're too busy at the Ministry to be home on time. It's not right. You wouldn't even have that job if it wasn't for me."

"It's not my fault!" Despite her best efforts, Sally-Anne found herself engaging. "Do you even care about what I did today? I saved someone, mom!"

"How dare you raise your voice to me." Her mom crossed her arms and glared. "I deserve to be treated with a little respect in my own home."

"This is my room!" Sally-Anne stepped past her into the closet, looking for a heavier sweater. You're always in here. You're always in my stuff."

"Not that sweater. It makes you look fat." She looked Sally-Anne over critically. "All that sitting at a desk. I was so slender at your age." She shook her head in disappointment.

"Thanks, mom." Sally-Anne rolled her eyes.

"Would it kill you to make an effort? I swear, sometimes I think you deliberately oppose me." Her mother plucked at the sweater with an expression of distaste and the persecution complex of a Cassandra.

"By the way, dad hasn't eaten again all day. Or didn't you notice?"

"You don't know what you're talking about." Her mom sat down on the bed suddenly, her voice tightening. "I sacrificed so much for you. You'll never understand. I don't deserve this."

Sally-Anne felt the familiar pressure building behind her eyes, but she refused to cry. Refused! She'd wept only once, as a child, and been taught never to try again.

"I need to go, mom. Groceries for dad." She grabbed a jacket, turning for the door.

"You were always hard to love." It was barely a whisper. Sally-Anne froze for a moment, then walked out, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

It was almost midnight before Percy could get to New Bond Street. He walked slowly, looking into each shop window, but he couldn't stop himself from fidgeting, pulling at his cuffs, although no amount of tugging could make them cover his thin wrists. Why couldn't they make shirts in his size?

"When you're quite through fiddling." Percy looked up to see the reflection of his father next to his in the glass and breathed out in relief.

"How did the Minister respond?" They started to walk more briskly towards Piccadilly.

"He says he'll bring it up to the Wizengamot. Or what's left of them." Mr. Weasley's face twisted for a moment, looking contemptuously into the distance. "Old men don't take well to change. Even after everything that's happened, they can't act. Paralyzed by fear."

"But what if they don't agree?" Percy looked over at his father cautiously. "What do we do?"

Mr. Weasley sighed. "What we have to." He grinned at Percy wistfully, putting his hands on his son's shoulders and looking him in the eyes. "I didn't bury your brother and watch your mother almost die just so these — ." Percy winced involuntarily as his father's fingers spasmed.

"Pureblood members have been electing their own to join them in the Wizengamot for a thousand years. Even with half of the Wizengamot dead at Voldemort's hand, I doubt they can adjust. Without change, nations become brittle. We need new blood at the table: half-bloods, Muggle-borns. This is the moment of danger, Percy. The chaos that follows a devastating storm. Wizardkind itself is in peril. We must unite!" He started walking again, talking almost to himself. "We must. Or we will be weak; we will be destroyed."

Percy pulled nervously at his cuff again before finding his voice. "I agree. We are stronger together. But you said yourself Kingsley is too timid. So how?"

They had just reached the corner when a ghostly, illuminated lynx jumped out of the wall in front of them. Mr. Weasley cast Notice-Me-Not in a blur of motion before Percy even recognized Kingsley's Patronus. The lynx was clearly agitated, pacing up and down before them, heedless of the danger of being seen.

"Arthur! There's been another attack. On the Aurors transporting Macnair."

Mr. Weasley summoned his own luminous Patronus and spoke to it, even as the lynx vanished.

"I'm with my son, Percy." Mr. Weasley's voice was calm, but Percy noticed he didn't sheathe his wand. "Should this conversation wait until I can get to the Ministry?" The weasel looked around for a moment, then seemed to dive into the pavement. After a moment the lynx reappeared.

"There's no point in trying to cover this one up, Arthur." Percy thought the wildcat looked subdued now. "First Rookwood escapes, now Macnair. Proudfoot's dead, and his trainee. Dawlish is alive but unconscious. They're taking him to St. Mungo's. But Arthur, something else." Kingsley's voice dropped, becoming urgent, almost pleading. "It's why I contacted you first. Whoever did this, they used Muggle technology. I'm told the Aurors were killed with bullets. Arthur, we need you. We need your expertise." The lynx vanished.

Mr. Weasley didn't hesitate.

"Percy, I need you to go to St. Mungo's. John Dawlish must be watched. On Kingsley's authority, do not let him speak with anyone. Anyone. Stay there until I contact you." With a pop, he Apparated away.

Percy stood there for a moment, his mind roaring incoherently, before his father's order registered. He began to run towards the Burlington Arcade.


	2. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

_May 10th, 1998_

"Turns out he'd been doing this to her since January, at least," said Sally-Anne. She was sitting on Arun's desk, just outside the tiny office she shared with Sam, with her feet on his chair. She took another bite of her apple. It was difficult to eat, thinking about what had happened yesterday, but she didn't want Zhu to notice. In any case, acting normally was old hat to her, by now.

"He trusted the war, and this mess of an aftermath, to keep us distracted," said Zhu. By contrast, Zhu looked green. The apple Sally-Anne had tossed her earlier sat untouched on her desk. The girl was staring at it intently, her arms crossed and laying on the table, her head resting on her arms.

"And it worked," nodded Sally-Anne.

"If his friend, what was his name, hadn't screwed up, he would still be…" Zhu swallowed down what sounded like a gag reflex.

"Paul Church. We questioned him this morning. Innocent." What a bust that interrogation had been, thought Sally-Anne. But perhaps that was a good thing. After Arun had gone for a Healer, Mark had bled out and the Imperius had worn off. Mark had never bothered to Obliviate Susan; he'd just started with a Memory Charm and then layered Imperio. Watching her, alone, as she remembered everything he had done to her, over the course of months, then having to call in Arnold Peasegood to Obliviate her, partially out of a sense of mercy, but mostly because of the Statute of Secrecy — it had almost been too much. What else could she have done for Susan? And making her forget what had happened, surely that had been a mercy?

"Questioned?" There was a hint of humor in Sam's voice, but a heap of sarcasm. Sally-Anne twisted around to look at him through the open door. He was sitting at his desk, his eyes on his work, seemingly paying no attention. The usual. She took another bite of her apple.

"Here at the Ministry. Two drops of Veritaserum, Sam." He looked up for only a moment, but Sally-Anne rolled her eyes at him. "No, we weren't about to trust his story. No, we weren't about to torture him. And Peasegood from Obliviators confirmed he's not an Occlumens. Not evil. Just an idiot. Mark told Paul he'd lost his wand, but that the Ministry would never believe it."

"Anyway," Sally-Anne turned back to the still motionless Zhu, softening her voice, "you did well, Zhu. As soon as we had real data, you pointed us in the right direction."

Zhu sat up very straight in her chair, looking at Sally-Anne, but she didn't smile.

"How often have you had to deal with cases like this? How many times?" They didn't bother with robes at their desks; Zhu was wearing a grey pencil skirt and a blue collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up a turn. Black boots, designer probably. She was pretty, Sally-Anne admitted to herself, especially with those big questioning eyes and that outfit. Her own clothes, scuffed trainers, jeans, and an ill-fitting sweater, didn't warrant attention from the men at the office. Not that she was trying.

"Most of the cases we get are the types you've already seen. Petty crime, or using magic as a shortcut. But serious cases? Imperio? Or even Legilimens? Maybe half a dozen. But I've only been working under Mafalda for a couple years, now."

"Too young to have gone to Hogwarts, anyway." It was Sam again, Sally-Anne noticed with annoyance. But it hadn't been a question so she didn't bother to answer.

"Say three or four a year. That we know of." Zhu seemed too preoccupied to have been listening to Sam. "And Merlin knows how many have accomplices smarter than whatshisname."

But Sally-Anne shook her head. They had a couple minutes until Arun got back; he was finishing up with Mr. Church, putting the fear of god into him, hopefully, and then she needed to get down to the Minister's office. But she didn't want to leave Zhu with the impression there was hundreds of Marks out there, or, more to the point, hundreds of Susans.

"Situation isn't that bad. Think about it. How many students in a Hogwarts class?"

"Forty."

"And wizards tend to live to about 120, assuming a natural death. So say 4,800 wizards, assuming squibs don't attend. And only 4,000 or so adults. But it's a dangerous lifestyle, if you haven't noticed. Splinching. Failed alchemists. And, lately, wars. Even if you assume some percentage of wizards either don't get their letter or don't respond to it, you're still only talking somewhere between three and four thousand wizards on the loose in Britain. But what percentage of any population is capable of something like this? You pretty much have to check all the Dark Triad boxes, like Voldemort, although it sounds like he was more of a sociopath."

"Still." Zhu was quiet again, thinking. Sally-Anne looked back over at Sam, who was no longer pretending to work, but he didn't say anything. They'd shared that tiny office for more than a year now, but she still knew almost nothing about him. Why was he so cold? He didn't seem socially awkward, not particularly. She'd never picked up any overt hostility, although she didn't assign that data much weight. He must have been in his fifties, at least, she figured, judging by the lines on his face. It was weird he was that old and still just sending warning letters to students about improperly using their wands. Was he really without ambition? Did he have a family?

"When I joined, I thought Voldemort and the Death Eaters were the only problem." Zhu looked up expectantly, as though wanting Sally-Anne to say something; she didn't take the bait. "But there are a fair number of these," Zhu picked up her apple suddenly and laughed, "bad apples running around. And it's our job to stop them."

"Because that's the DMLE's raison d'etre. Saving Muggles." Sam leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Aren't you going to tell her why the Ministry actually cares about wizards like Mark?"

Sally-Anne shot him a look. He certainly was a Chatty Cathy today.

"Not quite," she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "They just don't want someone accidentally revealing wizards to the Muggle world. Remember, we just said there are fewer than 4,000 of us. Muggles don't have a history of dealing well with minority populations."

"Especially when those minorities have magic powers." Sam said dryly. "The Statute of Secrecy isn't just some bureaucratic make-work invention."

"We should integrate. Look at what we could do for them, for the Muggles I mean," said Zhu defiantly.

Sam snorted, prompting Sally-Anne to swing herself off Arun's desk, toss Sam another apple from her bag, and then close the door firmly in his face. She pulled the chair up next to Zhu's.

"Look, Zhu. I happen to agree with you. But that is not an approach to be discussed at the Ministry. Wizarding institutions do not handle the idea of change well. And with something as fundamental as the Statute of Secrecy — and, remember, the Confederation is international; it's not just a question of Britain deciding it would be a good idea to show ourselves after all these centuries — well, that's just a brick wall."

"You tried, didn't you." Zhu's eyes were wide; it was a naive guess, but a right one. Sally-Anne sighed. Maybe it had been different for Zhu's parents back in Hangzhou; maybe the wizarding community there worked more broadly with the CCP than the Ministry worked with the British government. Maybe they'd given her the wrong idea, and no one at Hogwarts had bothered to explain the facts of life to a transfer student. It wasn't like there hadn't been enough else going on.

"Yes. It's why I joined the Ministry." A lie, Sally-Anne thought, but a safe one. "Sam has a point. If Muggles learned about us in the wrong way - from someone like Mark - then our entire community would be in existential danger. But that's why I believe a controlled integration is necessary; because it's going to happen eventually. Not every wizard lives in Hogsmeade or Godric's Hollow or Ottery St. Catchpole. We can't stop every bad apple, as you put it, before they do something terrible. We're firefighters, Zhu. I want us to be proactive. The Ministry thinks that's suicide. But I believe if we don't, in the long run we won't survive anyway." Sally-Anne stopped, realizing she might have said more than she'd intended. But sitting this close to Zhu was distracting.

"Anyway," Sally-Anne got up from the chair and sat back down on Arun's desk, tailor-style, "enough sad stories about battles lost." She tried to lighten her tone, pitching it to carry. "Why do you think I hired this joker?" She hitched a thumb over her shoulder at Arun, who was just walking down the hall towards them.

"Let me guess; because I clean up after you." It was meant for a joke, but Sally-Anne saw how exhausted Arun looked. She wondered if he'd managed to sleep at all, between getting back with the Healers too late to save Mark's life last evening and having to play bad cop with Paul this morning.

"You terrify him good and proper?"

Arun nodded. "He won't be lending his wand out anymore, that's for sure. I ran the script just like you told me."

"Not a pleasant task, but a necessary one. But that's not why I hired you." Sally-Anne smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You know I had to fight Hopkirk over you. A Hufflepuff in tight with Umbridge, according to the grapevine?" Arun's face was tight, but she was impressed by his self-control.

"No," Sally-Anne said quietly, "I hired you because you're a survivor." She saw his eyes widen, just for a moment.

She hopped off his desk, chucking her apple core into the bin. "And for a laugh. I'm off; been called onto the carpet. You kids be good while I'm gone."

Inside the office, Sam tiptoed away from the door back to his desk. He tossed the apple up in the air several times.

"Specialis Revelio." Nothing happened. He shrugged. "Evanesco."

* * *

Macnair woke.

Immediately, he knew that it had been too sudden to be natural. Rennervate, most likely. He didn't do anything stupid like try to look around wildly or ask where he was. He kept his eyes closed and his breathing regular. He could remember the carriage, the feeling of helplessness when the ambush began. He'd been completely defenseless: bound, blindfolded, and without a wand.

He had been stunned; that much was obvious. But by whom? If he had been kidnapped by Rookwood or Rowle, he'd already be free. Unless there was a deeper plot at work. A disquieting thought; he filed it away for later analysis. But perhaps he had been hit by a stray stunner and the Aurors had managed to win. Unlikely. If they had, by now Dawlish or Proudfoot would already be "asking" him what he knew. No, the ambush had unfolded quickly and silently; it had obviously been well planned. Too well. The whole operation stank of inside information.

Someone inside the Ministry? Or even the Order of the Phoenix, unhappy with the closure of Azkaban and the soft treatment of the Death Eaters? But closing the prison had been the idea of one of their own, the golden boy. It didn't make sense.

"Hold him." The voice, vaguely familiar, came from directly behind him. One strong hand gripped his nose, pulling his head back painfully and cutting off his air supply. Another grabbed his lower jaw, forcing his mouth open. Despite his size and his strength, Macnair struggled helplessly against the grip, until he saw stars and his body forced him to breath. Instantly, a hot liquid was poured down his throat. Pepper-Up Potion.

The hands released him and the blindfold torn off. He fell forward, leaning against the Incarcerous ropes that bound him to the chair as he choked and heaved, struggling for air. He finally opened his eyes. There was a lean, old man standing to his right, looking at him almost with wonder. Directly in front of him now, straddling a turned-around wooden chair, his arms leaning on its back, was Arthur Weasley.

"What the blazes, Arthur! Where's Dawlish? Where's Proudfoot?" He continued to scan the room, but the lack of a response from the Muggle-lover unnerved him. There was a table to Arthur's right. When he saw what was there, he found he couldn't look at anything else for a while. It took a deliberate effort to wrench his eyes away and look back at Arthur.

The wizard met his gaze and smiled rather sheepishly. "I'm sorry, Warren. Four drops." Macnair looked back at the table. Next to the bottle of Veritaserum was his wand. Where had they gotten that from; surely Ollivander would have destroyed it by now? Next to his wand lay a military semi-automatic pistol.

Now that he had been told, Macnair could feel the Veritaserum under the reinvigorating heat of the Pepper-Up Potion. He didn't feel drugged, or desperate to tell Arthur the truth. But he knew he would; as soon as Arthur asked him a question answering it would not be voluntary, but a bodily process, like digestion. But why? He'd made a full confession. Well, almost full. Was this because of Bode? But not even Arthur, with access to all the information at the Ministry, could knew the truth about that.

"How did you recruit Golgomath?"

"By giving him what he wanted; free reign to kill." Answering the question was a physical relief, like passing water after a long night of drinking.

"Was Voldemort intending to integrate the giants into the ranks of the Death Eaters after the war?"

"No. That would be impossible. Giants cannot coexist in the same habitat as humans. Evolutionarily, humans and giants are subspecies; they occupy the same ecological niche. Giants can hunt humans but they are not human predators. Competitive replacement would be inevitable if integration were attempted." Macnair was confused; this wasn't the line of questioning he'd expected. Arthur had kidnapped him from three Ministry Aurors to discuss natural selection?

"What was Voldemort's plan for the giants after his victory?"

"Extermination. He would have no further use for them." Macnair twisted in his ropes. "Is Proudfoot outside? Why stage an abduction just to ask me this?"

"After his victory at Hogwarts, did Voldemort intend to conquer the Muggle world?"

"I believe so. Voldemort craved power and could not have been satisfied ruling such a small community, even absolutely, even forever. He intended to turn the entire wizarding world into an army."

"Did he see war with Muggles as inevitable?" Beside him, Perkins seemed to start.

"Yes. He believed isolation was not a sustainable strategy. If wizards were exposed, perhaps through the family of a Muggleborn, we would be annihilated by the Muggles. If not, our birth rate has been below replacement level for three generations. There is evidence in the size of the dining hall at Hogwarts. Voldemort described this as demographic suicide."

"What about assimilation?"

"He considered it equivalent to voluntary genocide." Of course it was. Even someone as dense as Weasley had to understand that!

"So his solution was to seize dictatorial power, murder any opposition, promote procreation, turn the entire wizarding community into soldiers, and launch an existential war against six billion Muggles." Arthur's voice was quiet and calm. "Is that correct?"

"Mostly." Macnair swallowed. "Voldemort believed he was immortal. Between absolute power and war, we believe he intended to legislate higher birth rates for a period of several hundred years in order to build the size of his army. At some point, he intended to conquer and absorb the international wizarding nations, before launching an attack against the Muggles. He made allusions to this, but never shared any specific plans with the Death Eaters."

"An absurd solution to a reasonable problem." Arthur looked at Perkins, who grunted, as though conceding something. Arthur then stood up, and carefully placed the chair back next to the desk. If they were in the Ministry, Macnair thought, it wasn't a room he was familiar with. And it didn't smell like the Ministry; the air was too clean. If the fool left it to Perkins to take him back to the Aurors, he had a chance.

"I want to thank you, Warden, for confirming my suspicions." Arthur reached towards the table and picked up Macnair's wand. Macnair watched him intently, twisting his hands again against the ropes. Arthur noticed the attempt and smiled softly."You don't understand, Macnair. You're not a villain. You're not even a minion. You're just not logical. And I can respect good intentions."

He lowered himself into a crouch so he was looking Macnair eye to eye.

"But, unfortunately, I'm the hero. Reluctantly, I admit," he looked ruefully up at Perkins, "but heroes rarely get a choice. We have to do what is necessary. I hope you can accept my apologies." Arthur pointed the wand at Macnair's chest.

"Avada Kedavra."

* * *

"Look, I'll talk to you after the meeting. Privately. But if I don't let them in, they'll tear the door down. For now, just sit in that chair there and pretend to take some notes. And don't engage! This whole thing is a mess and we need to stay calm."

Sally-Anne almost laughed in Kingsley's face at that. She'd never even met the Minister before, and had been genuinely nervous on her way to his office, fearing that word of what she's done to Mark Regan had somehow reached him already, but the man was clearly out of his depth in what was certainly a minor crisis; she's never imagined that in real life someone who was so panicked would plead with her to be calm.

She looked around the room; the place was a disaster, and she hoped the meeting would be small, as much of the floor was covered in scrolls and other work than he clearly hadn't gotten to yet. She wondered how far behind events he was. An open door led to a large, elegant conference room, but apparently that wouldn't be the venue for this meeting.

There was a bang, and she jumped. Someone had flung the door open, and it had crashed into the wall. Correction, not someone; Minerva McGonagall. Sally-Anne straightened up in her chair and tried to be even less noticeable than usual; there was no way the Hogwarts Headmistress could remember her. Hopefully. But the full force of the witch's will was focused on the Minister.

"Details, Kingsley! Your Patronus message was just this side of incoherent." Behind her, squeezing into the office until it was a question of standing either on a treacherous pile of paper or a tea tray, were several people Sally-Anne knew, or at least knew of, and several strangers. She recognized Professors Flitwick and Slughorn, also from Hogwarts, and Arthur Weasley was a colleague at the Ministry, in a different office but also under Ms. Hopkirk. He had the reputation of a lightweight, an absent-minded tinkerer who fetishized Muggle culture rather than trying to understand it. The last man in closed the door and stood like a bouncer in front of it; he had a haggard face, with thick, black hair but crooked teeth.

"There's not much to tell, but it needs to be told here, in private. Macnair escaped on his way to the estate where he was supposed to be held. And he had help," said Kingsley, nervously.

"And the Aurors?" asked Flitwick, who had commandeered the only other chair in the room and was standing on it in order not to be completely lost in the crush. Kingsleys' eyes flickered to the man at the door before replying.

"Proudfoot and Jacobs are dead. Dawlish is at St. Mungo's and was still unconscious, last I heard."

There was general confusion as Flitwick, Shacklebolt, and McGonagall tried to talk over each other, but all Sally-Anne heard was Slughorn remarking, under his breath, that Dawlish sure did seem to get knocked about a fair bit.

"We need to presume this was carried out by Death Eaters, I'm afraid." Arthur stated flatly, once the first burst had past.

"How!" McGonagall asked him sharply. They're under guard, by aurors and spells. Wandless."

"Not Rookwood," answered the man at the door.

"Yes, and you're put the rest of them together, where they can plot and scheme at their leisure. What a great idea that was!" Slughorn bellowed, throwing his arms up in the air. "And with Dawlish out, there's only Williamson guarding them. One Auror, vs. Dolohov. Yaxley. Rowle. And Travers." He counted the names off. "With Rookwood — and now Macnair — in the wind."

"My men have them strictly separated," retorted Kingsley. "They never so much as see each other. And without wands, they cannot pass messages, let alone plot and scheme at their leisure!" He exhaled a deep breath and his angry tone dissipated with it.

"What about the seventh years?" He turned to McGonagall. "I know how badly you wanted to give them a chance to redo their last year, or do it properly at least, but other than Savage here," he nodded towards the haggard man, "and Williamson, every Auror I had is now either in hospital or in the ground."

That caused a silence. McGonagall's face when she spoke was as pale as chalk.

"The Battle of Hogwarts hit us hard. I hoped we'd have years to recover. Not this."

"There's another problem we may be forgetting," interrupted Arthur. "Macnair was Voldemort's envoy to the giants. If he's free again, and able to reestablish contact…"

"Oh, Merlin," breathed McGonagall.

"Filius. I'm loathe to pull you away from Hogwarts, but at least until Dawlish is recovered, I need you to be on call, if something else happens. You're the strongest Dark Wizard fighter we have left, and we need you," pleaded Kingsley.

Flitwick inclined his head, and looked at Slughorn. "I'm thinking Granger, Longbottom, Goldstein, and Zabini."

The Potions professor nodded his agreement. "Give us two weeks, Minister, and you can have them, at least part time."

"What about the goblins, Flitwick?" asked Savage bluntly. "It may not be politic, but it needs asking. If Macnair's going for the giants, are the goblins next?"

Flitwick smiled slightly and shook his head. "I take no offense, Robert. It is a logical question. But the answer is no, goblins will never take sides in a wizard war. It would be an anathema."

"Why?" Arthur looked skeptical.

"I may have lived with wizards for most of my life, but with a little effort, I can remember how goblins think. The matters that concern you are of complete indifference to them. They are concerned solely with the precious metals, and the treasures they have wrought from them. But they cannot be bribed. They adhere to honor. They would watch a war, and Gringott's would profit, but their neutrality is absolute."

"Fine." Arthur turned back to the Minister.

"Kingsley, seventh years is one thing, and the departments will begin to recruit, which you agreed to yesterday, but if we're going to find Macnair, if we're going to catch Rookwood, if we're going to prevent any other plans the Death Eaters are hatching, we need the freedom to act! Now is the time to go to the Wizengamot, as discussed, and unbind our hands at the Ministry. Not just the Aurors, but my office, and Hopkirk's." He pointed at Sally-Anne.

"I see you've included one of her junior employees. Good. We all need to work together right now. No more political bickering. We don't have the time for the normal procedures, the normal oversight from an antiquated and unwieldy group that can't get half its members to show up when it meets and can't agree on the day of the week when they do, much less matters of substance!"

Kingsley opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

"Giants, Minister. Giants!" urged Arthur.

"I agree with Mr. Weasley," said Auror Savage into the silence. "The members of my office are dwindling at a rapid pace. We need to be able to do what is necessary, without trying to double-guess ourselves in the moment, fearing what Mr. Doge or Mrs. Longbottom will think."

All right," said Kingsley finally. "All right. I'll call an emergency meeting tonight. But from this moment, under my authority, you may act based upon your judgment."

"Trust us," said Arthur, "to do the right thing."

"And not a word of any of this outside this office. Not even to the seventh year recruits, or to junior members of staff." Kingsley sat down suddenly on the edge of his desk. "It'll be hard enough trying to keep Macnair off the front page. If the average wizard in Hogsmeade knows the situation, and the steps we think are necessary to deal with it, we'll have chaos out there."

"I'll lend you and Williamson a man to replace Dawlish for now." Arthur turned to Auror Savage. "That way, even if one Auror needs to be pulled off duty for something, there'll be an experienced wand on the Death Eaters."

Flitwick jumped down from his chair. "And I'll send my Patronus at least once a day to check in, Kingsley."

The Minister nodded. "Ms. Perks, if you could stay behind for just a moment."

Once they had left, the room seemed quiet and empty. Kingsley sank down in his chair behind the paper-strewn desk and sighed heavily. He didn't seem about to break the silence.

"Forgive me for asking, Minister, but why did you request I be here? This doesn't seem like a case of improper use of magic, and as for the rest, well it's rather above my pay grade, isn't it? More appropriate for Ms. Hopkirk, I mean, or even…" She wondered if Kingsley would take the bait.

"Yaxley?" he snorted. "I'm sure he'd accept his former post with alacrity. Have even less trouble putting me under the Imperius as he did with poor Pius." Kingsley made a face, then leaned in to look seriously at Sally-Anne. She hoped her deferential posture wasn't too blatant. She almost re-adjusted her glasses again, but figured that would be pushing it.

"Ms. Perks. The previous four heads of your department are either dead or in custody. I also happen to be the fourth Minister of Magic in four years. If it hadn't been for whatever in Merlin's name happened at the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort would be sitting here. I don't know how carefully you were listening just now, but to say we have a manpower shortage — no offense — would be a serious understatement."

"Yes, Minister."

"As for why you're here, specifically, understand that the information I am about to give you is known by no one other than Robert — and I suppose John — and Mr. Weasley. I myself told it to Arthur last night." He pretended to shuffle some papers, but his look was expectant. "Does that tell you anything."

It was clearly a test, and the most likely answer also helped explain her presence.

"Perhaps that Macnair's abductor used a Muggle tool."

"Tools. Yes. Correct. Therefore, and especially given the, uh, the personnel crisis, I have asked Arthur to take over the investigation." Kingsley looked down at something lying on his desk and then back at Sally-Anne. "You grew up among Muggles, actually, didn't you?" He asked the question as if it were awkward but obligatory.

"To an extent, Minister. My father is a Muggle." She sounded calm and natural, even to herself. Get asked the same question enough times and you're bound to answer it well.

"That may be helpful. Arthur, well, he's a reliable chap, well-liked. But," and here Kingsley began to over-enunciate rather theatrically, "perhaps out of his depths in a situation like this. He's also in a period of mourning, of course. He lost a son at the Battle of Hogwarts; you may not be aware of that.

"In any event," and his voice went back to being matter-of-fact, "I need someone who can step back from the problem, see the forest, all that. No risk of combat, of course," he went on hastily, "but Mafalda tells me your team focuses on finding patterns, finding the people who don't want to be found. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Minister."

He smiled cheerfully.

"Excellent. Well, that's all settled then. You'll be working independently from Arthur, of course. In fact, better if he doesn't know, I think. Might be misconstrued. Let me know when you have something."

It was an obvious dismissal and she showed herself out, rather confused. Clearly one or several of the Death Eaters had freed Macnair. But how, without wands? Was Ollivander involved? Unlikely. That would explain why the attackers had required Muggle tools. That was a rather vague term, she thought tangentially, why hadn't he clarified? Although perhaps the Minister couldn't be bothered with the minutiae of the case, especially the Muggle elements.

A smile twisted across her face for a moment there; the arrogance of wizards towards Muggles manifested as willful blindness and she had no patience with such deliberate ignorance. For now she would just assume they'd used guns, and maybe a grenade or two. Not difficult to get, even in Britain, when you were a wizard. Maybe Dawlish would be able to tell her more, if he woke up.

But that seemed too straightforward for Kingsley to ask her to help. She was three levels down in the DMLE. Granted, the pieces of the man who constituted the top level had still been smoking a week ago at Hogwarts. And Mafalda wasn't a field agent. Did he really trust Arthur's competence so little? But he'd be working with those Aurors, Savage and Williamson, when they weren't guarding the Death Eaters. Even if they couldn't see the forest, couldn't they go from tree to tree?

That was what really confused Sally-Anne. Why didn't Kingsley just Imperius the Death Eaters they still had under arrest to find out who was guilty? For that matter, with Azkaban off the table — and only Merlin knew what her potential classmate had been thinking there, or why the Ministry had jumped to obey, no matter how many white rabbits Potter seemed able to pull out of his hat — why were they still alive?

Assume any universe where the current scandal ended badly: leaving Voldemort supporters alive seemed like a mistake that would be obvious in hindsight. The Ministry didn't have the Aurors to adequately guard them, _and_ search for whoever had freed Macnair, _and_ deal with any other potential problems that might come up. Like, giants, apparently.

Was Kingsley so hesitant to use the Unforgivables? Was he worried what the Wizengamot would say if he executed men who a week ago had caused the deaths of over fifty — fifty! — wizards in an attempt to take down the last citadel of opposition to Voldemort?

Sally-Anne shivered. Was she being set up to fail? Was Kingsley Imperiused to act indecisively, perhaps somehow by Rookwood? No, impossible, one of the Ministry's first acts after regaining control had been to install Thief's Downfall in The Atrium on Level Eight and at key doorways. She'd personally seen Kingsley get drenched. Well, then, was the Minister in on it? That didn't make sense; what did he have to gain?

Reluctantly, she found herself back at Occam's Razor. Or, she told herself grimly, more properly back at Hanlon's Razor.

Fine. Assume incompetence and start over. The captive Death Eaters couldn't have acted alone. Either an Auror had helped them spring Macnair, which seemed unlikely since two of them were dead as a result, or Rookwood had been involved, or someone else was responsible, likely in conjunction with them. Someone who was trying to create disorder, where there was already plenty to go around. So who was helping Yaxley and the others, and why?

She heard a noise ahead and glanced up, only to realize that she was already approaching her office. Zhu and Arun stood there, looking at her expectantly. She was unexpectedly touched. Part of her wondered if they would survive the next week.


	3. Testable Hypotheses

_May 11th, 1998_

The corridors of the Ministry were still dark as Arthur knocked on the solid oak door that led to Auror Headquarters. Percy stood silently behind him, wishing there'd been time for coffee.

Several minutes passed, then a heavy shambling approached the other size of the door and a disheveled Robert Savage, clearly in a foul temper, half-opened it. He glowered at Arthur, then slowly turned and walked away from them. He was still wearing his black robes from his shift. Arthur motioned to Percy, then followed, closing the door behind him.

The room's windows showed rain on the Scottish moors and it took Percy's eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, he found the Aurors' gloomy common area depressing. He'd been here before, had talked with Kingsley before he'd become Minister, had been teased by Tonks before she'd died. It had always been spartan; he could see Savage turning into the open bay barracks where off-duty but on-call Aurors caught kip. But he's never seen it this empty. He slowly walked past the desks. Most of them were barren. Proudfoot's personal effects were still on his. Jacobs' as well. Nothing out of the ordinary: back copies of the _Daily Prophet_ , notebooks, a stray umbrella cover, some framed pictures. Percy wondered if someone would throw everything away. He tried to remember which empty desk had belonged to Amelia Bones.

"This is your man, then. Your son."

Percy glanced up to see Savage looking hard at him. The Auror had changed out of his robes and was wearing a wrinkled pair of loose khaki pants and a half-buttoned military style shirt. He was barefoot.

"That's right. Percy Ignatius Weasley." He held out his hand. "My father says I'll be assisting you and Auror Williamson."

The man ignored him and Percy slowly let his hand fall back to his side, where it felt completely out of place.

"Hoped you'd be sending someone a little more capable. A little less desk-bound."

Arthur was examining a large plaque that was bolted onto the far wall. It was nearly covered in carvings of small wands. Under each wand was a name. He didn't look at Savage.

"Quite right, Robert," Arthur said in a pleasant, even tone. "For something like this, Alastor would be perfect." He traced one of the carved wands with a finger, gently. "Or perhaps I should get Nymphadora. Her ability would be highly useful in such a situation."

Auror Savage swore. "No need for that kind of talk," he said aggressively. Arthur turned back to him, crisp, efficient.

"I believe you'll find my son can perform quite capably, Robert. For a first substitute, that is."

"We'll see."

"Indeed." His father's eyes now swept over the desks. "Of course, this memorial is out of date, isn't it. You will have to add Proudfoot. Jacobs. A pity that, so young. And Percy here tells me that Dawlish, on those rare occasions when he's conscious, doesn't remember his name. Your department has quite the mortality rate."

"It's the Wizengamot's fault." The thickset Auror shifted his weight angrily. "Things were supposed to change after the Battle of Hogwarts. So many of us died defeating the Death Eaters, and now we're nannying what's left of them. Those that didn't cut a deal and just got to go home, that is."

"I suppose they felt the war was over."

"Wars don't end so easily." Savage laughed harshly. "But those old men have tied our hands. Damn them! Treating Macnair and the others with kid gloves. Proudfoot wouldn't be dead if they'd given us a foot of rope. But no. Constant second guessing, that's all they're good for. Safe down in the dungeons. But we're expected to always make the right decision under pressure. Protecting people who feel free to criticize us." He slammed a hand down hard on one of the bare desks.

"I agree fully, Robert. You remember yesterday I urged the Minister to allow a greater scope to your activities and to press the full Wizengamot for the same. I have good news; they acquiesced. I believe it was fear of the giants that tipped it, in the end." Percy caught the note of pleasure in his father's voice.

"Well, thank Merlin for small favors." The Auror made no attempt to hide his bitterness and Arthur quickly stepped up to him, placing a hand on one of his elbows.

"No, it's not enough. Not with so few men. There will always be enemies of the Ministry, Robert, and unless we have the power to stop them, someday they are going to win." His father seemed to look for something in the Auror's eye.

"This is still in process, but I hope to convince the Minister to consolidate many of the departments within the DMLE. Strength in unity, Robert. The times require it. Freedom to use whatever means to gather information. Freedom to act, including ghost wands." Savage started at that, and Arthur, emboldened, continued.

"Yes, no more scraping to Wand Screening over every judgment taken in the field. And more recruits, Robert. If I'm promoted, as Head Auror you'll be able to fill this room again and stop the next Voldemort, the next Death Eater, the next wizard who violates the Statute, before they even get out the door, without having to ask permission first. Now, how does that sound?"

Robert stared at him. "Our enemies must be defeated. You can count on me, sir, to do what is necessary to ensure it." Arthur squeezed his elbow.

"Good man." He turned back to Percy. "Between the three of you, set up a rotating shift to watch the Death Eaters. Robert, I may need Percy for other tasks — he should be there when Dawlish recovers enough to give a statement — so flexibility will be key. Otherwise, I leave it in your capable hands. Report anything relevant to me directly; Kingsley gave me strict instructions that he's not to be bothered. Meanwhile, I'm going to find the bastards who killed Proudfoot."

* * *

"Zhu, back to work. I have a special treat for you today." Sally-Anne's voice was crisp as she walked back up to her waiting staff.

"Review all the Wand Screening data for the last month. No, better make it three." She smiled to herself as the junior girl tossed her long, straight black hair over her shoulder and gave an exaggerated groan. "No need to thank me; bringing joy into people's lives is what I do."

Sally-Anne banged open the door to their tiny office and Sam, glaring, looked up. She ignored him. How many owls could the man be responsible for sending to school-age children for minor use-of-magic infractions, especially during the school year? The post was a classic Ministry sinecure, the sort of inefficiency government bureaucracy spawned like a Gemino curse. Let him be aggravated. She gathered up the thick stack of files and brought it back out to Zhu's desk.

"Here's the rub. Not entirely sure what we're looking for." She stopped to think for a moment. This was almost certainly a blind alley, but that was the job; sometimes it felt like playing twenty-card monte.

"Assume for a moment there's a wizard, or several wizards, who have been spending a great deal of time in the Muggle world and they've had to use magic to get what they want while there. What does that look like?"

"Nothing." Zhu sat down and began to organize the files Sally-Anne had dumped on her. She gave her boss a glare that rivaled Sam's. Only Sam, Sally-Anne thought, didn't have lashes like that. "If they're competent, they'd have used ghosts."

"And secret technology from Atlantis," Arun scoffed. "There's no such thing as ghosts! You've heard how crazy Ollivander is, tracking every wand. Yet every time we suspect someone's activity, despite an innocent screening report, we wonder if they have a second wand hidden away."

Zhu didn't flinch. "What about smuggled imports? Or unlicensed manufacturers?"

"Enough." Sally-Anne shook her head. "I don't have an answer. I've heard stories of ghost wands, but never one with evidence. At least in peacetime, and during war it's irrelevant." She stopped. That raised a real question. Where _were_ all the wands from the recent war? From the Battle of Hogwarts? Surely Ollivander had accounted for them? And the Death Eaters that were being held, even if they'd had ghost wands, had no access to them in custody. Unless this whole thing was an inside job. She shook her head.

"It doesn't matter for now. One branch of the decision tree at a time. Assume the wizards had to use their own wands. Look for heavy use of Confundus, Obliviate, Memory Charms, even from people who'd use them in their legitimate job. Look for long gaps in the spell record, if they had to be incognito. What else?"

"Disillusionment," Zhu replied grudgingly. She clearly still had her back up a bit.

"Good." Sally-Anne nodded her approval. "Any other suspicious patterns, let me know. Arun, my office." She made a mental note to ask someone at Wand Screening about ghost wands the next day; she was due for a screening herself, which would make the timing look innocent.

She had Arun close the door behind him; with three people crowded into it, especially after Kingsley's, the room seemed absurdly small. Why, she wondered, could wizards invent three bedroom tents, but force their government to work in such pathetic quarters? Their office didn't even rate a magical window. She checked the wall clock.

"Sam, I'm glad you're still here." A little encouragement should be sufficient. "You deal with lawbreakers, don't you. You must have insights into how they think. Let's say you committed a crime in the wizarding world, but didn't use your wand. Why?"

Sam silently gathered together the papers and scrolls on his desk and put them into a desk drawer. Standing up, he slowly reached for his umbrella and then squeezed by Arun to the door.

"I wouldn't. Good evening."

Once he was gone, Sally-Anne pulled something out of her desk before shifting over to Sam's chair. She put her feet up.

"That's better."

"You should ask Mr. Weasley," commented Arun.

"What?"

"Mr. Weasley. Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. He probably knows lots of examples where wizards used something from the Muggle world illegally. Not just modifying an artifact, I mean, but using it as intended, just here in this world."

"Catch." She tossed him the Master tumbler lock she'd grabbed from her desk and, a moment later, her wand. Arun groaned.

"How cruelly I mistreat you. I know it's harder this way. That's the bloody point. You'll find your own wand more responsive, if you practice with someone else's."

She wondered for a moment if Arthur could be guilty, but only for a moment. First, it was too obvious. If Arthur were involved, he would never have used means that pointed directly back to his own office. Second, and here she found herself smiling, this was Arthur Weasley. Enthusiastic, yes. Mugglephile, certainly. But murderer of Aurors and accomplice to Death Eaters? Not so much.

Arun cast Alohomora three times before the lock clicked open, but closed it on his first Colloportus.

"Keep going." She waited for him to focus on the spell and began again. "Assume Mr. Weasley has no relevant information." No need to tell Arun that Arthur was looking at the case as well. Not that she should tell him much about the case, period. Not that Macnair had escaped. Not that his rescuers had used Muggle technology. She let out a breath slowly and pushed her glasses back up again. How could she think out loud on this one?

"You know Rookwood escaped, killing Aberforth in the process, right?" A safe question for her to ask; the escape and murder were top secret, so everyone knew the story. Arun nodded on cue, his face tight with concentration as he continued to cycle through the locking and unlocking spells.

"Imagine Aberforth was injured, but survived. What does that imply?"

"His guilt. Colloportus. Rookwood's a killer. "

She chewed on that for a moment. Was Dawlish involved? It was plausible, certainly. She'd ask Arun to stop by St. Mungo's, see if anyone had contacted the Auror. Or Dawlish could have been Imperiused on his way to transport Macnair. Perhaps by Yaxley; he was the ex-head of the DMLE, after all, and an expert in Imperius. No, that was illogical. She was needlessly multiplying entities. That theory required not only an Auror to help Yaxley both escape from custody and then return, unnoticed, but also inside information of Macnair's route, implying another Auror or Ministry employee was involved. It was simpler if Dawlish was guilty.

"OK, good. Levitate the lock. Now let's assume Aberforth is innocent, but Rookwood had help escaping. Back down and continue. Who helps him and why?"

"The other Death Eaters, because they want to break free and cause trouble again. Alohomora." Arun looked at her as though he was unsure why she asking such a stupid question.

"I'm sorry I'm so slow, but walk me through that scenario." Sally-Anne leaned back in Sam's chair. "The Death Eaters break free in order to rescue Rookwood so he can help them… break free?"

Arun squirmed. "Maybe it's one of the Death Eaters not in custody. The Malfoys or, uh, the Carrows. Colloportus."

"That's possible." Sally-Anne had heard that both families had been cleared, but she pursued the idea. They were wandless, which was a point in favor of using Muggle technology. But out of necessity? She imagined that if anyone had an unregistered wand lying around, it was the Malfoys. The Carrows, for all their sadism, didn't strike her as being capable of conceiving or executing Macnair's rescue. Would Lucius or Narcissa not use a wand solely to make the Ministry think it wasn't them, that it was someone worried about Wand Screening? That seemed a Byzantine thought process, but Lucius had a reputation for intrigue. But no, impossible. The Death Enters hated the Malfoys more than they hated the Ministry. No enemy was as implacable as a former friend.

"If neither the captive nor the free Death Eaters helped Rookwood, in your scenario, then either it was someone from the Ministry or — and we already know this is the correct answer, boss — he did it alone. Aberforth died of a broken neck. Colloportus." Arun was clearly growing impatient as he tried to anticipate her.

Someone at the Ministry. She had dismissed Kingsley before, but who else would have known when Macnair was being moved?

"Let's look at the scenario from another angle," she said slowly as she ground through branches on the decision tree. "Cui bono? Who benefits from Rookwood escaping?"

"Other than Rookwood?" asked Arun dryly. He spun his wand around a couple times. An obvious delay; she could see him sweating from the continual castings. "I know who didn't benefit. Us. People already thought the Ministry was a joke, after the last few years, but Rookwood escaping, especially after we had to rely on Potter to defeat Voldemort," he clenched his jaw, " _again_ , made us just look pathetic. Alohomora." The lock didn't open. He tried the spell again.

That was true, Sally-Anne thought, but Macnair's rescue was responsible for the Ministry departments being allowed to recruit again. She wondered if Mafalda knew that yet. Maybe she shouldn't have driven Sam off quite so quickly; he was closer to their boss than she was. She'd have to find a way to actually get an answer out of him. Just as they were getting along so well, too, she thought sarcastically.

She took her glasses off and closed her eyes. Something didn't make sense. Yes, the escape of Macnair had hurt them in manpower and its revelation would injure their reputation. Well, it would when it got out, and that could only be a matter of time; nobody gossiped more than the nurses at St. Mungo's. But it helped them as well, pushing the Wizengamot into allowing the departments to recruit and act on their own recognizance. That certainly would be an unintended consequence, if a Death Eater were responsible. And if Dawlish were guilty, why kill the other Aurors? Necessity?

She opened her eyes suddenly. Arun was silent, watching her. Clearly exhausted, he'd stopped trying to open the lock, but she'd hardly noticed.

"You did well, yesterday, Arun." She watched him sit straighter in the chair and marveled at how a little praise, well-timed, was more effective than continual positive reinforcement.

Make them earn every dollop, she reminded herself. Make them think you've forgotten, then raise them up with a single kind word, after days or weeks of criticism and hard work, and they'll walk through the fire for you.

But all she said was: "Remember it." Judging by his expression, that was enough. She felt proud for a moment at the loyalty she created. Did anyone else at the Ministry inspire their staff? Not Kingsley, certainly. He was lucky the Ministry functioned as well as it did, under so inept a leader. Then the realization hit her and she laughed at her own stupidity.

She had been asking who benefits, but that assumed there was a benefit. And there was. There was a huge prize laying out there and she hadn't even noticed it. Power.

The Ministry was seen as a joke, Arun had said. Kingsley was worried about chaos if people learned what had happened. Why were new recruits suddenly so important? Because almost every powerful wizard had died fighting Voldemort. She realized for the first time just how thin the war had whittled their ranks. Amelia Bones, Dumbledore, and Moody were all murdered. Rufus and Pius had been killed. The werewolf had died at Hogwarts, along with Auror Tonks. Why hadn't she seen the danger before? Why had she assumed the status quo would prevail, just because the obvious enemy had been defeated?

She'd been in Kingsley's office; that wasn't just a meeting, she realized belatedly, but a counsel of war. She hadn't noticed because, after all, who was left? A few teachers, two Aurors that could still stand, and a man who liked taking Muggle machines apart and putting them back together. And her, a very deliberate nobody. They were what was left of the muscle of magical Britain.

That was it, she realized, with that cold dread she felt when she knew she was right, and wished she wasn't. A classic power vacuum. And nature abhorred a vacuum. Someone was trying to take over, just as Voldemort had, only eschewing the direct approach. Kingsley, assuming for a moment he wasn't some subtle mastermind, wasn't decisive enough to stop whoever it was. The teachers were distracted. And Arthur certainly wasn't capable. That left her.

She pictured the face of Susan Williams, after the tears but before Obliviation. She'd been in pain, yes, but so grateful for being saved. By Sally-Anne. From magic, a power she'd never heard of or been able to prepare for. And that wasn't fair. It was bad enough wizards couldn't be bothered to use their magic to help the Muggles. But for them to so casually ignore the magical crimes committed against Muggles, unless Sally-Anne caught them... And even then.

If Kingsley wouldn't use the power of his office to do what was necessary, at least he had implicitly given her the all clear to do so herself. She would save magical Britain from rogue wizards. And if that ended up helping her save Muggles from magical Britain, well, that had been her goal from the beginning, hadn't it?

* * *

The low-ceilinged room smelled of damp and the few chairs that had been placed facing each other folded and were made of metal. They had no servants. They had no wine. They had no masks. They had no wands. And there were only four of them.

"How far have we fallen?" thought Yaxley and the bitterness reached his face as he looked at his fellow prisoners. Rowle. Dolohov. Travers. The rest were dead, or traitors. Or cowards.

He was silent for a moment, considering. He trusted Rowle; the man was too simple to betray them. Dolohov could be trusted to be Dolohov; Voldemort had taught him to rely on a man's nature. But Travers… he was full of hatred, certainly, but there was humor there, as well, and caution. That could be an issue. If the old man intended to reveal their plans...

Sometimes he wondered if Travers mocked him to the others.

"Macnair. Macnair. Macnair. Where? Where is he? You said he would be here." Dolohov gripped the legs of his chair and his black hair fell across his face. His voice was unsettlingly rhythmic, almost possessed.

"I bet he escaped. Like Rookwood. Macnair is smart. He worked for the Ministry." Rowle smiled. "I hope he killed many Aurors."

"Before we begin our useless speculating," Travers said quietly, letting his fingers beat a pulse on his bent knees, "tell us, Yaxley, how are we here. We've been denied access to Azkaban and our allies there, denied wands, confined to separate rooms. Yet here we sit, gathered together again. Have you overpowered Williamson? If so, tell us. Show us his body."

"There is a new guard," said Rowle cunningly. "With red hair. He is young."

"A Weasley?" Travers spat. "Those blood traitors. You have dealings with them, Yaxley?"

"I smell a trap. Rookwood killed young Weasley. I saw it. Cannot be trusted." Dolohov shook his head.

"His blood is pure," interrupted Yaxley. "And he is foolish. That is enough. Another came with him, his master, who brings us news."

"What news?" said Travers, slowly.

"Friend Rowle is correct. Macnair has escaped and two Aurors are dead."

"He brings news, good news, and allows us to move freely, to meet, to talk. Those are two things. Connected, I think." Dolohov's eyes were bright as they looked at Yaxley.

"The Ministry is afraid," said Rowle. "They cannot hold us. Rookwood and Macnair are too strong for them to stop." He stopped and seemed to think. "They offer peace because they are afraid."

"We shall have new wands. We shall be free. We shall kill our enemies." Dolohov's voice was rising, almost exultant. "The wizards will kneel again before us and the blood traitors will cower and die."

"I don't trust gift-bearers." Travers shook his head and turned back to Yaxley. "How do we know Macnair has escaped? The Ministry is weak, but to allow a second escape requires foolishness as well. Shacklebolt is a traitor but no fool. Perhaps he killed Macnair rather than allow him to strengthen our numbers."

"Did the Minister murder his own Aurors as well?" asked Yaxley contemptuously. "The servant Weasley brought proof of their deaths."

"Then why does he allow us to gather?" Travers pointed out. "A traitor must be behind Macnair's escape. Lucius, perhaps. The snake knows how to lay low and strike when unexpected."

Rowle spat. "Malfoy is a coward. The pretty boy cries and licks his wounds."

"You say servant." Dolohov leaned forward. "You must know who is master. Who is this master? What has he told you?"

"I met him," Yaxley admitted, "but he was cloaked and masked. He sends his goodwill and offers this freedom as its token." The tall man looked around.

"He wishes to talk with us, here, while the young Weasley guards, tomorrow." Yaxley watched their faces as closely as he could without being obvious. What was their reaction?

Travers leaned back in his chair with a thin smile. Rowle hardly reacted at all, as though he were still trying to understand what Yaxley had said. But Dolohov surged to his feet, the metal chair scraping against the stone floor. He paced, agitated, his voice now ringing between the walls.

"A usurper! Loyal to wizardry. He will free us and together we will drown the Ministry in the blood of the mudbloods and Muggle-lovers. He will bring us wands and the Aurors are too few now to stop us."

"More likely he will try to murder us and thereby make himself a hero. A clever plan." Travers looked at Yaxley and his lip twisted. "He will claim we attacked. Coming so soon after Macnair's escape, who will question him?"

Yaxley shook his head. "I agree with Dolohov. He has agreed to come alone, to let himself be searched. If he wanted us dead, he could have killed us tonight." Yaxley involuntarily grimaced, lines sinking deep into his rough features with his shame at their powerlessness. They were as feeble as Muggles, guarded by Aurors who would have trembled to meet them in combat and soiled themselves as the sight of their former lord. Weasley's master had promised Yaxley wands. Wands and power. He could feel the weight of a wand in his hand again. There were debts to settle.

"He makes promises and you believe them," stated Travers flatly. "New wands! Or perhaps you believe it is Ollivander himself, who licked Dumbledore's boots, now suddenly finding his courage."

"We listen and maybe we have ally, gain power. We don't listen, return to rooms without wands until Ministry decides what to do." There was hope in Rowle's eyes as well.

"Deny him. We have two friends in the wind. They may be planning to break us out even now. This stranger works with a Ministry employee; he cannot be trusted. To do as he says is to fall into a trap."

Yaxley's eyes narrowed at Travers' words. The old man thought too much. Was he happy as a eunuch? As a slave? Perhaps he hoped good behavior would win him a pardon, now that two Death Eaters were loose. Like a dog begging by an empty bowl.

"Enough. I have already consented to the meeting." He looked hard at Travers. "Any objections or accusations can be addressed to him, personally. He values the purity of blood and despises the half-bloods. I am ready to listen to such a man." Rowle and Dolohov grunted in agreement and Yaxley let his voice go low with unspoken menace. "If you wish to stay in your room tomorrow, Travers, we will not forget."

* * *

By the time Sally-Anne got home that evening her father was already in bed with one of his old books he liked to re-read. The flat was peaceful and the light rain fluttering against the windows somehow made it seem even quieter than normal. Smiling, she laid down on her own bed and continued to plot her next steps.

She'd have to go to Wand Screening first thing in the morning, but that was taken care of. Then recruiting. How could she do it quickly but quietly enough not to draw the suspicion of either the Ministry or whoever it was seeking power? Could she ask McGonagall to recommend some students? The Headmistress probably would be too busy to — .

"Why is this door closed? What are you doing in here?" Sally-Anne felt her heart rate spike. She hadn't noticed her mother come in through the door. But she didn't reply, trying to focus again. Should she specify the Houses she preferred? Or would McGonagall — .

"You're always so cold. We never chat any more. Do you really hate me that much?" Her mother glared, her lips pursing, and, unwillingly, Sally-Anne found herself losing control of her thoughts, bracing for whatever her mother might do or say next. "You're not even listening to me are you, Ms. High-and-Mighty-at-the-Ministry. Too good for your own mother, who loves you and would do anything for you."

Her mother's voice dropped for a moment into sadness and self-pity, but then climbed again. Sally-Anne gripped her bed at the rage in the words.

"You need to clean up your act! How many times have I bailed you out with Mafalda, in the field — so many instances I haven't ever told you about! They want you fired! They want you gone! I had to beg them not to! Humiliating myself before the Minister for you, and this is how you thank me! Without a shred of respect!" Her mother's voice slowed again and she began to shake her head in cold disappointment.

"You're going to clean up your act, starting right now, or Merlin help me, you father and I will have words and then you'll be sorry. Won't you? Won't you?"

Sally-Anne's pulse raced and she realized she was breathing too quickly, almost hyperventilating. Fight or flight! Her body demanded a decision, but she refused to do either. Not yet. She had to give this attempt more time.

"Then you'll see what it's like to be treated so cruelly by your own flesh and blood!"

Why wouldn't her mother stop? Why wasn't this working? Sally-Anne wasn't taking the bait, she wasn't talking, she wasn't fighting, and yet the yelling, the diatribe, the lecture, all of it rolled into a monologue of hate and resentment, continued.

"You're so hurtful, well let's see if you can take it as well as you give it!"

Don't respond. Don't respond. Nothing for her to feed on. She'll stop. She'll stop soon. She has to.

"You ungrateful daughter! I've been too easy on you. That's over. Finished! I'm through carrying you. Maybe I will let them fire you! Maybe I — ."

The door closed behind Sally-Anne as she escaped into the tiny hallway outside her room. It was dark and cold, but she felt flushed. Her heart beats blurred together. She could still hear her mother screaming.


	4. The Choices We Make

_May 12th, 1998_

"Morning, Alice," said Sally-Anne briskly.

The wand screener glanced up distractedly from writing on a report scroll. She looked like she'd been up for hours, brunette strands already starting to escape from a black hair claw. She gratefully accepted the Costa Coffee cup that Sally-Anne handed her, but waved off the croissant.

Sally-Anne shrugged and started to gnaw on it herself. She didn't glance at the standard wand holder standing in the corner of the desk. How many times had they done this?

"How's business?" She tried to look over Alice's shoulder at the report, but the woman smoothly pulled an old paperweight onto the scroll and let it roll up, hiding the writing. Sally-Anne was amused to see the paperweight commemorated the three-hundredth anniversary of the Ministry.

"I didn't know you were here back in '92."

"Joined back in '88. Fresh out of Hogwarts. Young and dumb." Alice smiled tiredly with her eyes.

"But now you're old and wise. Won't even let me read your super secret reports." Sally-Anne threw herself into a chair. She munched for a minute, watching Alice take a short sip from the pressed paper cup, then a longer one with closed eyes. "What was it like back then?"

Alice carefully put the coffee down onto one of her desk's few open spots. "Calm. Boring. I don't know." She laughed, but there a note of nervousness to it. "Not like recently."

"Like recently how?"

Sally-Anne watched Alice's brow furrow. "She's only ten years older than I am," she thought. But the woman looked older. There was grey mixed into the brown and even a slight frown drew lines on her face.

"I'm a good employee." For some reason, it seemed like she wanted Sally-Anne to believe her. "I'm not political. But lately…" Alice trailed off.

Sally-Anne cocked an eyebrow and the older woman started talking again, faster, as though trying to justify herself.

"A year ago, it was business as usual. Routine. Ounce of prevention and all that jazz. Six months later, I'm helping organize lists of Muggleborns and confiscating their wands. Three months after that, I realize three-quarters of the department isn't showing up any more. Some of them were ill, supposedly. Some had fled. It started to be only the real die-hards left, the ones who barely noticed or cared whether Mr. Thicknesse was himself or not." She looked down at the paperweight.

"It's not like we're elected. It's not like new Ministers have the time or the inclination to find an entire new staff." She swallowed.

"I've seen — how many is it? — Ministers come and go. It usually ends badly. I understand the mentality of those who were still coming into work every day. 'Somebody else's problem'. I suppose they felt they were the foundation. Necessary. You know. Permanent. Everything else was just..."

"Like they were the creatures of the deep sea, eternal. Who couldn't be bothered with knowing if there was a storm on the surface."

"Yes." Alice looked up at Sally-Anne again, almost fearful, then back down at the commemorative plaque. She motioned at it.

"That's when I fished this out. It was reassuring, for a while. That sense of continuity. I didn't have to worry about poor Mr. Scrimgeour, or speculate about Mr. Thicknesse's behavior. I just had to do what I was told. That kept me warm for a couple days. Numb, really. But the confiscations, I couldn't handle those scenes." She leaned forward confidentially.

"Finally, I went and stayed with a friend in Leicester. Tried not to read the newspapers. Then I heard what had happened at Hogwarts, so I came back." She gestured weakly again, seemingly at the office, or maybe the Ministry itself.

"That was just last week. Last week! There are a lot of empty chairs, especially here on Level Two. But everyone's so blase. They talk more about Quidditch than what happened. Like we didn't help them do all, all, _that_." Alice looked calmer, having poured out her emotions.

Sally-Anne noticed that Alice hadn't asked her if she'd stayed under Yaxley. Not politic, she supposed.

"Before you left, did you see Ollivander still coming in?"

"Every few days," Alice nodded. "He didn't seem happy. But he didn't seem upset, if you know what I mean."

"He knows he's an institution. Doesn't matter who thinks they're in power; they need him. Untouchable." Sally-Anne shrugged.

"And he knew it." Alice suddenly giggled. "I suppose if normally my only customers were wide-eyed eleven year olds and I fed them the same lines every year, I'd welcome a change of pace, too."

"So, now that it's over, are you bored again?" teased Sally-Anne. But Alice shook her head fervently. Then, as if reminded, she picked up a much-used scroll from her desk. Sally-Anne didn't remember the thick black lines crossing off at least a third of the entries. Alice followed her eyes and smiled weakly.

"Hard for me to remember; it's been a couple months, after all." She reached in Sally-Anne's general direction but didn't make eye contact.

Sally-Anne handed over her wand. Alice placed it on the wand holder and, after a moment, checked the register in front of her. "Rowan, that's right," she murmured, then pulled out her own wand and pointed it at Sally-Anne's. "Prior Incantato."

"So Ollivander was repairing wands under Yaxley." It hovered on the line of being a question.

Alice was concentrating on the ghostly image of the last Colloportus Arun had cast. "I think so. But replacing them, more often. Or providing second wands, in case of emergency. He had a real rush of orders in April. Prior Incantato."

Sally-Anne realized Alice hadn't noticed the slip and quickly continued. "Second wands. That's supposed to be forbidden. Under the Statute itself, I believe. Although I suppose Ollivander claims he wasn't in a position to argue."

"Prior Incantato. No, I suppose not. Anyway, he's working overtime trying to make up for any sins. He's been all over the place since it ended, seizing illicit wands, returning those we confiscated, reconciling his records. Up at Hogwarts while the bodies were still warm, I heard. And he was in here twice this week, talking to Philip, asking me all sorts of questions. Prior Incantato.."

That was strange. The wand maker hadn't stopped by her office, unless Sam had just decided to keep that information to himself. But there had been no owl, no memos. Maybe Alice had told him that Sally-Anne was due to stop by this morning.

"So no chance of me getting that ghost wand I ordered, huh." She tried to make it sound funny, but Alice's head still snapped up before the wand screener let out a short bark of laughter.

"Mr. Shacklebolt himself couldn't 'lose' his wand and get a replacement right now. Prior Incantato." Another ghost of an Alohomora. Alice sighed.

"Well, I think that's good enough. You haven't used any other spells recently, right?" She glanced sideways at Sally-Anne.

About time, too, Sally-Anne thought. Alice hadn't gone back more than a dozen spells with her in almost a year. Like Ollivander, she was certainly presenting the appearance of doing a proper job.

"That's everything," she nodded, knowing how differently a non-Ministry wizard would have fared.

"That's a relief. Still have a backlog of civilians to work through and I'm out of practice." She smiled at Sally-Anne. "Good to have someone in here I can trust and not worry about. And the results just circle back to your office anyway, don't they?" She laughed awkwardly. "Save us both some time."

"Hey, that's why I joined up in the first place," said Sally-Anne. "Only job where I can practice and do whatever spells I want and no one finds out or cares."

"Very clever," chuckled Alice, taking it as an obvious joke. "You should have the next batch of results from Philip in the next day or two. Hopefully we'll be almost caught up by then."

"Thanks. See you next month." Sally-Anne let herself out of the office and smiled briefly at Philip, who gave a half-hearted wave in return, as she walked back to her office.

So any unregistered wand would have to come directly from Ollivander at this point, she thought. She wondered if she should talk with him, but dismissed the idea as too dangerous. Whoever had sprung Macnair hadn't used a wand; if they had, that would have made it obvious to everyone either that Ollivander hadn't been as thorough in sweeping them up after the Battle of Hogwarts as he claimed, or that he had supplied the killers directly. Either way, even if it hadn't been their primary goal, whoever was guilty had acted perfectly to keep Ollivander's name clean.

But Alice had been right, Sally-Anne thought; Ollivander was untouchable. If she confronted him, or even tried to get Kingsley alone and convince him, she'd lose. She'd be out, just as she was realizing how important it was for her to be not just in, but higher up. Besides, Ollivander was too passive to be a leader; if he was involved, it was as a tool. Knowing that, maybe she could watch and figure out who was using him.

She reached her office. Arun and Zhu weren't at their desks, which sat deserted against the wall. Were they at lunch? It seemed awfully early. She opened the door to her office, a slight prickle just behind her ears.

* * *

Light and only light. It was like stepping into the middle of a nova. But she wasn't blind. There was simply nothing for the light to hit, no surface to reflect its waves. After a moment, she realized this included her own body. She felt normal, but as far as her senses were concerned, she might as well have been reduced to a couple of corneas, retinas, optic nerves, and a brain.

She decided not to panic and then wondered if whatever was left of her was going to care that she'd decided. She tried to move an arm that clearly no longer existed and wondered if this was what a phantom limb felt like.

Suddenly, her body was back. For a moment, the light was still too painful to see anything, but slowly it faded to eye-wateringly bright. She tried to blink away the spots and focus. There was a table in the large, whitewashed room. Two boxes stood on the table. A man in a business suit stood behind the table. They were the only things that had any color, other than herself. She squinted, trying to figure out where the corners of the room were, then looked back apprehensively at the man.

He looked almost excessively human, as though he'd been launched out of the Uncanny Valley so hard he'd overshot. But something about him still seemed off. It took Sally-Anne a minute to figure out what it was; his microexpressions were too deliberate. People couldn't perfectly control their facial muscles or where their eyes looked, they couldn't hide their surprise, contempt, and other universal emotions. But this man's face gave nothing away. That shouldn't have been possible. It unsettled her. She wondered if his control over his words and tone would be as precise. A question worth testing.

The table, on the other hand, although clearly made of wood, seemed deliberately simplified and for a moment she couldn't tell which pair of legs were farther away. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried not to think of Necker Cubes, realized her mistake, and tried not to think about pink elephants. She opened her eyes again to find the man watching her.

He was holding a piece of torn loose leaf, folded in half. One of the boxes on the table was completely opaque and looked like slate. The other was made of glass and she could clearly see what was inside. She took a quick, deep breath and held it for a moment.

"Is that what I think it is?"

The man held out his hand and calmly offered her the folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she read: "Your first words will be: 'is that what I think it is'."

Sally-Anne felt unsteady for a moment and crouched down on the balls of her feet, thinking. She looked at the paper again. The handwriting was perfect italics.

"Yes. It is exactly what you believe it to be. And it is real. As you may have guessed," the man indicated the room, "we are no longer in your Ministry, but by what methods and to where you have been brought I may not inform you. It is enough to say that this room has been specially constructed for our conversation, and will be dismantled when we are finished. _That_ , however, will not be dismantled." He pointed at what was in the glass box.

"It is yours to take from here back to the Ministry and use as you see fit. However, you have a choice. You may take the contents of both boxes, or take only the contents of this box." He pointed at the grey slate box.

Merlin on a stick, thought Sally-Anne. She was living Newcomb's Problem. She had experienced lucid dreaming; this wasn't a dream. Why would some magic power unknown to her actually try to recreate Game Theory thought experiments? What power would decide her Omega should look like a Dress British, Think Yiddish banker? She controlled her facial muscles as best she could and stood up again, slowly.

"Why wouldn't I take _that_ as well, especially since I can't even see what's in this box?" She asked, as disingenuously as she dared.

"As I have already demonstrated to some degree, my ability to predict your actions is impressive. Not perfect, but impressive. If I believed that you would take both boxes, this box — let us call it Box B — is empty. But if I believed that you would take only Box B, Box B contains [redacted]".

Once Sally-Anne's brain finished processing what he claimed might be in Box B, she had to take off her glasses and pretend to clean them.

"Thank you for confirming the relative value of the payouts. It is surprisingly difficult to construct boxes with the appropriate utilons."

She decided to let that one go.

"How can I trust you? What if I only take Box B and it's been empty the entire time?"

"I decided what you were likely to do before bringing you to this room. Box B is already either empty or contains [redacted]. I cannot change that. Therefore, showing you the inside of the box would be self-defeating."

"But my decision will be partially based on our conversation! How could you have already decided and be confident in your decision?"

"My confidence is not a necessary input. What is necessary is that you believe in the accuracy of my predictive abilities. I have already given you one demonstration. Here is another." He took a mechanical pencil and a note card from his suit pocket and wrote something down. He placed the note card on the table, pocketed the pencil, and calmly looked at her.

"While you are thinking about what you can do or say to prove that you have free will beyond my ability to predict, this should help convince you that I am not a parlor magician. During your conversation with Albus Dumbledore, you intuited something important about him that was publicly revealed only after his death. Yesterday evening, after leaving the office of Kingsley Shacklebolt, you pictured the face of Susan Williams and decided to take advantage of recent events by acting decisively and thereby gaining power in order to end the segregation of the wizarding and Muggle worlds. And this morning you put one drop of Veritaserum into Alice Weaver's coffee. Yet she still managed a lie."

Sally-Anne set her jaw. She closed her eyes, reliving a night long ago, before she even knew magic existed, when she still had to lift herself up onto her toes to see into the mirror. She had done something wrong — what, she could no longer remember — and had retreated to the bathroom of their flat with her precious Walkman II, sticking a random classical music cassette into the player as she fled.

She felt again the resistance of the Walkman's springs, the smoothness of its gears. She sat cross-legged on the bathroom's cold tile floor. The cassette's first song was triumphant; it made her heart beat faster. Just as the second song started, her father came home. Through the music, she could hear her mother telling him what had happened, winding him up. She heard him exclaiming, growing angrier. Tears stood in her eyes. The music grew louder as his footsteps approached. He pounded on the locked door; the song swelled. Just as it ended, in the tiny silence of its death, she heard the lock click and the door swing slowly open. Her father, in one of his red-faced rages, threw the tape player against the wall, shattering it and the tape beyond repair. Behind him, in the dim hallway, she could see her mother smiling a tight-lipped smile of triumph, holding a wand.

Sally-Anne opened her eyes, blinking away the blurriness. She felt calm; no matter Omega's technique, that song was beyond his predictions. She picked up the note card. On its reverse side he had written two words.

 _Valse Triste_.

Sally-Anne slowly placed the card face down again on the table.

"You seem to be able to see inside my mind." She was impressed by the steadiness of her voice. "But what about pre-commitment?"

"We both know true pre-commitment is impossible. The rigours of natural selection have designed your brain to believe that you will act as you have promised until the choice must actually be made, and then to choose according to self-interest.

"As for reading your mind… what you would call Legilimency, and what a Muggle would call a brain scan, would show no more than this convenient false belief. No. I have not predicted your decision based on anything so clumsy."

Sally-Anne felt like she was sliding on black ice. Her questions and her actions had been naive and leading on purpose; she had hoped to trigger a tell. From what he said. From how he said it. But again he had given her nothing.

No. No, that was impossible! Her brain tried to reject the empirical evidence rather than confront the alternate hypothesis. Was he not a man, after all? Perhaps an automaton? No country, muggle or magical, had technology that advanced.

For the first time, she began to think about where she was. Was it possible this was exactly what it purported to be: Newcomb's Problem? If not, what else did Omega know about her? She had been as careful and circumspect as she knew how, and her precautions had assumed both Muggle and magical means of surveillance. She'd been inside the Ministry too long not to know its blunt, careless power, not to try to shield herself. She had no desire to be, if not arrested, politely blacklisted.

It was a corrupting thing to live one's true life in secret, but the alternative was too grim to be considered.

"I will leave now. The decision is yours." A door that Sally-Anne hadn't seen before suddenly opened behind him and he stepped backward into it like a cuckoo, task complete, retreating into its clock. The door closed, its seams invisible.

She stood there for a moment, looking at the two boxes, and tried not to visualize what she could accomplish with what was in each box. The changes that would be possible.

It felt absurd not to take both of them. The man had shown an uncanny ability to anticipate her, but the state of Box B, containing or not containing [redacted], was already decided. Impossible knowledge couldn't turn back time. Time Turners, before they had all been destroyed, couldn't alter the past. Even if she had been brought somewhere that still had the technology, it seemed a poor joke to use it as a "gotcha!". And the man hadn't seemed to have a sense of humor.

Impossible knowledge. Wait a minute. Even if she didn't trust his flat denials, she hadn't sensed Legilimency. She'd lived among Muggles long enough to know no brain scan was capable of surrendering her secrets. No surveillance could have captured all the thoughts and events he had referenced. That left only an impossible solution. She'd dismissed Time Turners, but there was another way to replay the past. And there was a way to credibly pre-commit. She'd seen the answer, in a flash, almost to spite him, just as he'd dismissed the possibility. She couldn't be sure it was airtight, not yet, not without space to think and someone to bounce ideas off of, but her intuition told her she was right. More importantly, the two methods were the same. Simulation.

Her brain recoiled from the path that word led to like a horse shying from a bear. But it was too late. The obvious question hung in front of her, demanding acknowledgement.

Did she know herself?

Not this incarnation, nothing so simple and new-agey as that, but all the other Sally-Annes (don't think of how many, don't think of how many) that Omega had talked to, had offered the same choice to, had used the decisions of to predict what her decision was going to be.

Did she trust herself?

That was the deeper question, the darker question. Had the other Sally-Annes acted selfishly, betraying her and taking both boxes, indifferent to the man watching and recording before he reset the problem? Or had they cooperated with their future selves, with her, and contented themselves with Box B, taking the smaller overall payoff in this round in exchange for a greater payoff combined over all their incarnations?

Did she trust herself?

A year ago she would have laughed and said "no" without hesitation and taken both boxes. Even a week ago, the same answer, the same response. She didn't trust anyone; that was the foothold and foundation of who she was. It had kept her safe. It had kept her sane. But since then, had something changed? A glimpse of a better self, seen through the eyes of Susan Williams? A chance at that better self, because of what she'd realized after talking with Kingsley?

Even, perhaps, a feeling that her better self was who she really was, who she was intended to be, and that denying her better self would be a reward to those who wanted to keep her down, keep her passive. Would be letting them win.

It was her choice, the man had said, then he'd tried to force that choice with everything that was sensible and rational and normal. Her face flushed with anger. Sometimes, being logical was manipulation. She wouldn't let him make her choice. That was all she had, especially now (don't think about that, don't think about that).

All she had were the choices she made. She couldn't control her childhood. She couldn't control the Ministry. She couldn't control the world. But she could control herself. She could shout across iterations of the simulation. By acting as her best self would. That was the only way, she realized, she'd ever get there.

She approached the smooth wood table. She picked up Box B. She stepped away from the table. Her heart rate was smooth and slow. She trusted herself.

She sat back down on the hard white floor and crossed her legs. The opaque box was heavy but its lid swung open easily. She looked inside. The box was empty. The cupboard was bare.

* * *

Percy rubbed his hands together and blew on them. It was a cold evening. He trusted his father, but couldn't help feeling apprehensive.

Could the Death Eaters really be controlled? They seemed a dangerous weapon to hold. He had been in the service of powerful men now for a long time, he thought. Their ambitions had not played out as planned. Was he bad luck? Had it been his fault, not seeing danger and warning them in time?

There was a swirl of motion to his left; his father had arrived. Percy's pent up agitation sluiced off into the rain.

"I'm a good soldier," he whispered to himself silently; it was his shame and his satisfaction, both. Let others bear the burden of deciding; it was enough for him to believe in them and to do what he was told. He felt calm and safe, awaiting orders.

His father strode over, glancing up at the dark manor that held Yaxley and the others. There was neither greeting nor affection in his words, only what needed to be done.

"You have the case? Good. We will be joined by another momentarily, before we meet with the Death Eaters. Your wand will be out, but you will not provoke him. Neither will you speak unless spoken to and, even then, use the minimum number of words necessary. There is a risk of violence, but I believe it is a small one."

"Who is coming, father?" Percy felt his heart rate accelerate again at the unknown.

"Rookwood."

"He murdered Fred, father!" Percy's voice, when he found it, was high-pitched in protest. "I don't understand. He is a blood enemy to our house. How can we deal with him?"

"I mourned your brother, Percy. But I will not allow his death to weaken an alliance that is necessary, neither will I allow it to bring triumph to our enemies. One death must not be allowed to cause others." Arthur put an arm around Percy, speaking firmly, as though instructing. "Blood feuds solve nothing, and showing the captive Death Eaters that Rookwood and I are together will bind them to our cause."

"But, Rookwood! Father, these men, even wandless, are bad enough. Rookwood was defeated by Aberforth once, and revenged himself without a wand. And now he is armed! He may try to murder us right here and free the others."

"Rookwood is a pragmatist, and so am I. He serves the powerful and very soon that will be us. To hold a death in battle against him, or a death that stood between him and freedom, is mere ego. I understand his motives; I understand the man." His voice became almost chummy, cheerful. " We don't need to trust him, Percy. We just need to use him."

A whorl in the air, a crack, and Rookwood stood before them. He had shaved his head and there was more grey in his beard than Percy remembered, but his eyes were dark and alert. His wand was drawn.

"Augustus. Thank you for coming. I wasn't certain an owl could find you." Arthur slowly spread his hands, palms out, to show that he was unarmed.

"The owl did not survive. Your message did." The voice of the former Unspeakable, former spy for Voldemort, former prisoner of Azkaban, former Death Eater, and current Public Enemy Number One of magical Britain was soft and calm, without menace. "It was unexpected."

"No doubt," said Arthur dryly. "But you are here; that seems to imply a certain level of agreement with what I wrote."

"Perhaps. Remind me why I should not kill you now, and another of your sons, who is nervously fingering his wand as we speak, and free my comrades."

"To what purpose?" Arthur laughed. "What would you gain? I know you will act in your own best interests. And right now, our interests are the same. I forswear all vengeance, Augustus, and ask only that you fight beside me against the common enemy."

"I will listen, and then decide." Rookwood resheathed his wand. He looked at Percy for the first time. "Clever of you to have one of your own people stationed here." Arthur lowered his head at the compliment. The three of them made their way into the house.

They met the Death Eaters in the main dining room. Yaxley, Rowle, and Dolohov stood together in the far corner, Travers slightly apart. Occasionally, Travers looked out the window, but it was impossible to see anything other than their own reflections given the hour and the well-lit room. When Arthur and Rookwood walked in together, all four of them looked stunned.

"Sit, gentleman, our time is limited and there is much to discuss."

Percy was surprised to see that they obeyed Arthur, silently. Had they, like him, grown used to taking orders, only under Voldemort rather than the Ministry? He felt again under his robes for the smooth case his father had entrusted to his care.

"Let me come to the point. If Augustus and I can find common ground in this hour, will any of you disagree with the necessity of our cause? It would take desperate times for me to sit down with the man responsible for the death of my son. That is what these are. More evidence of my veracity." He carefully placed his wand on the table, within reach but facing the wall. He looked at Rookwood meaningfully, who did the same.

"Kingsley has betrayed us all. He abducted Macnair, and likely murdered him, to wrangle the Wizengamot to his will. They have already met and granted him extraordinary powers. He will use these powers to destroy the opposition, to do to you as he has already done to Macnair, and to allow the half-breeds and Muggleborns to dictate policy." He looked around the room.

"Blood purism is now a dirty word in the Ministry. Kingsley wishes to reduce the power of wizardry through corruption of the blood. And not just with mudbloods. With Muggles as well. He smears any opposition with the name of Voldemort. I cannot stop him alone. I need your help."

"Words are easy," said Travers after a short silence. Yaxley glared at him, but he continued. "We were told you had proof that Kingsley murdered his own Aurors to get to Macnair. Explain. And show us the proof."

Arthur nodded and gestured to Percy, who brought him the case. It was wooden and looked like it should have held an oboe.

"First, the why. You may not know the term, but this was a perfect example of a false flag attack. In short, by killing his own people, Kingsley gained power. Look at this." Arthur drew a scroll from his robes and handed it to Travers.

"As for proof." Arthur turned the case to face the Death Eaters and opened it. Inside were two wands, broken, covered in blood. "These belonged to the Aurors Proudfoot and Jacobs. They were recovered from the scene. Note how carefully they were destroyed. Only Kingsley knew the route. Only Kingsley would act so deliberately to erase the evidence. Any other attacker," said Arthur, nodding towards Rookwood, "would certainly have taken the wands rather than destroy them."

"This proceeding gives Shacklebolt complete freedom to surveil, investigate, apprehend, and interrogate any possible threats to the security of the Ministry or the wizarding community. Actions taken by Aurors or other members of the DMLE will be subject to internal review only." Travers sounded shocked.

Rookwood reached for one of the bloody wands and examined it for a moment. "This is not a casualty of battle. Deliberately snapped in two, likely with a boot."

"Percy's memories will confirm Kingsley was the first to learn of the attack. He informed us shortly thereafter via Patronus, seeking my help in theory because of my portfolio but in reality because of my, shall we say _innocuous_ , reputation. He used Muggle means in order to avoid risk of exposure through a wand screening."

"That murdering Muggle-lover!" Yaxley swore. "With Macnair dead, he will come for us next. He could order Savage or Williamson to kill us in our sleep at any time."

"And likely make it look like you had attempted to escape. There would then be no one to oppose him and his new order. Within a few generations, true wizards will be bred out of existence." Arthur clicked shut the lid of the case with a note of finality.

"It would be over. Now you can see why I have come to you, despite our history. To prevent that end, whatever means are necessary are required."

"We need wands." Dolohov said, looking up. "WIthout wands, we are nothing. With wands, we can help."

"I will delay Kingsley until that is arranged," agreed Arthur. "Timing will be essential. When Percy delivers the wands, proceed at once to the Ministry. Kingsley and the remaining Aurors will be killed in battle. I will be seen to drive you off, and be promoted either to Minister or head of the DMLE. I will ensure that his crimes are published and your rebellion justified. Not long after, some new threat will be invented and we will make a deal: pardon in exchange for service. We will restore the old order together." Arthur stood up, not waiting for a response.

"Everyone needs to be back in place before Auror Savage arrives. Discuss my offer and inform Percy of your decision tomorrow. I am trusting you; there can be no greater proof of this than my willingness to show Rookwood where you are being held. More than that: I need your help. I need your strength." Arthur looked at each of them in turn, his voice matter-of-fact.

"But if we do not join forces, if you escape from here on your own, you will only play into Kingsley's hands. Magical Britain will give him an army and they will hunt down and destroy you and every pure-blood believer. Do not allow that to happen."

* * *

Sally-Anne barely had time to register what an empty box meant before the door opened again and Omega came back into the room.

Their roles had reversed. He was no longer the precise, imperturbable man that he had been. She saw shock in the lines around his mouth and eyes. Her face might as well have been a death mask. Let him come to her.

"That. That was not supposed to happen."

She sat on the floor, unmoving, and looked at him.

"All discrepancies were accounted for. The pattern match was precise."

Sally-Anne stood up without touching the floor. Was he going to just stand there and prattle at her? She walked over to the table and put out her hand, palm up.

The man hesitated. She realized what that had to mean but maintained eye contact. Her hand didn't tremble. Slowly, he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small white envelope. He placed it in her hand. It was unsealed and very light. She shook the entire contents into her other hand. It was a single item, a sticker showing a small, stylized cartoon of a young cat. The cat had six short lines for whiskers, a tiny yellow nose, and a pink ribbon just below one ear.

He had promised her [redacted] and given her a Hello Kitty sticker.

Sally-Anne wondered idly if he was capable of feeling pain.

"We have decided to allow _this_ to continue." The man seemed to really look at her for the first time. "We are not at liberty to tell you what we are allowing to continue, but we believe that somehow you have already deduced the truth. If so, a warning will suffice: we know what we have given you looks like. But if you peel it off, and attach it to another surface, _this_ will end."

The man turned around and took a step towards the now-open door. It was the first time she had seen his back. He stopped and seemed to hesitate again. He half-turned his head back to her. Ahead of him, through the door, the darkness was inviolable.

"I apologize for predicting you would take both boxes."

Another step and the door closed behind him. The same blinding light and she was standing in front of her office again. Arun and Zhu looked at her strangely. She put out a hand to steady herself against Zhu's desk.

In that moment, Sally-Anne had a vision. She was standing next to herself on the high terrace of Primrose Hill as the late afternoon sun laminated the city with a color that only exists during childhood summers. She was Sally-Anne, junior Ministry employee, poorly dressed, with glasses that kept slipping, looking down on London. She was also Jadis, the White Witch, Queen of Charn, tall and merciless, looking down on her vast and blood-soaked city. Then, with a twist of her lip, she peeled the sticker, she spoke the Deplorable Word, and every living thing was caught in the fire of the sun, shrieked, smoked, and perished. The Thames boiled and ran dry; the sun itself crumpled into nothingness.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

For a long moment she looked into the abyss and was calm. Some part of her knew there was a world in which she would willingly wield such power, but then the realization of the arrogance necessary to do so overwhelmed her.

"This isn't power," she thought to herself, as though speaking to Jadis. "It's contempt."

She wondered at Omega for giving it to her, then realized how little all this meant to him, just one simulation out of the countless already run and the countless still to be. But to her, and to everyone she knew or would ever know, this was everything. Voldemort and Dumbledore, Malfoy and Moody, her mother and her father, all would have joined together against such power.

It's always the powerless who suffer, she thought bitterly. The weak. The vulnerable. And power didn't notice. Not really. Power was careless in its destruction. She wanted power, yes, but only in order to reduce power, to stop the powerful.

The Voldemorts.

The Dumbledores.

She would gain power that was useful, that could be used to create, to heal. That was real power. Not this useless infinite capacity to destroy that rested in her pocket. She would use her power for good, to prevent whoever had freed Macnair from taking over. And then she would relinquish her power. Not by handing it over to someone who might be corrupted, but by dispersing it. By spreading it beyond the Ministry, beyond the tiny community of wizards.

"Hey boss. Boss, you all right? Look like you've seen a ghost."

"No, I don't," she answered almost automatically, and went into her office. She closed the door behind her. She had to think of somewhere safe to put the Hello Kitty sticker. Where do you stash the doomsday device?


	5. Ikigai

_May 13th, 1998_

Dawn broke pale and weak on Westminster Bridge. Only a trickle of tourists were walking west towards Big Ben, still outnumbered by the civil servants coming from Waterloo and Lambeth North. Sally-Anne braced herself against the wind gusting down the Thames.

She was almost halfway across the river before she saw him. He was looking north, his hands braced on the bridge's railing. She stopped a couple of feet away, trying to adjust her backpack over her jacket with one hand while holding onto her coffee with the other.

"Thanks for meeting me."

Sam didn't look at her, just took a swallow from his silver thermos. After a minute of having her eyeballs water in the wind she turned around to face north as well. He was watching the construction of the Millennium Wheel with unconcealed distaste. His thick black hair was cropped close; for the first time she noticed the grey in it.

"So you got away with it. I suppose I should say congratulations."

Her only answer was to offer him her coffee cup. He did look at her, then, out of the corner of his eye, before taking it and handing her his thermos. He popped the lid, sniffed the cup, and took a sip.

Sally-Anne unscrewed his thermos and sloshed the amber liquid around for a moment, before bringing it up to her nose. Jasmine tea. Not what she would have guessed. Had his wife made it for him fresh that morning, looking out at a dark city? They swapped back.

"It was justice. Besides, he had me at wand point. I didn't have the time to think of a nice bloodless solution."

"One reason is reassuring. Two is not." He started to walk towards Waterloo, but slowly. "Not like anyone even noticed, did they. Alice eats out of your hand now and the rest can't be bothered."

Sally-Anne noticed the bitterness. She took a double step to pull slightly ahead of him. "It's safer to meet here, but not ideal. How are you at Concealment or Disillusionment?"

"No thank you. Nothing draws attention like showing you've something to hide." He indicated the thickening clusters of tourists pushing past them. "Safer just to talk normally. No one cares, unless you create a scene. You picked a good spot." He said it grudgingly.

"Glad to see you're not completely stupid, despite all those years sitting at a desk." She tried to make the gibe light-hearted and gave him a half grin as his head swung around. He didn't return it, but he didn't say anything, either.

For a disorienting moment, she managed to see things from his point of view. A middle-aged man, decades at the same job, still reporting to Ms. Hopkirk. Stuck in a sub-department no one respected while Quidditch organizers got the glory. Passed over for promotion. Forced to share an office with a jumped-up teenager benefiting from nepotism and shining with the foolish certainty of youth. What could she know of his frustrations, his failures, his dreams deferred? What could she know of his demons and what they cost him? Sally-Anne shriveled a little. Maybe she should tone down the snark a bit.

"Sam, you deal with underage improper use of magic. Help me understand that; do most kids even have wands?"

"Purebloods do," he said bluntly. "I got one on my third birthday. Some kids get them passed down by older siblings. Although that tends to happen when a wand's been damaged." He looked at her again. "Your father may be a Muggle — yes, everyone knows — but considering your mother... When did you get yours?"

The week before Hogwarts. But she didn't say it.

"And Ollivander just dishes them out and the Muggleborns end up years behind." It wasn't an accusation, quite.

"I keep forgetting how young you are." Sam looked almost amused. "That's not how it works. Pureblood children aren't getting them from Ollivander. At least, not officially. Maybe he's culpable occasionally, say for a Wizengamot member. Good luck trying to prove it, though. No, they get heirloom wands, passed down from great-grandparents or dead relatives. Plenty of those to go around, lately. Ollivander turns a blind eye; that's standard operating procedure. They practice with those until they're about to be first years and then they make the pilgrimage to Diagon Alley." He sipped his tea. "But yes, the Muggleborns get a raw deal. Although it's more politic to say every pureblood kid's a wunderkind."

"So what's the point of the Trace, then? Muggleborns don't have wands and purebloods are practicing magic in the middle of a magical family, so you can't be certain you're blaming the right person. They'll just hide the wand, blame an adult, and Wand Screening never finds out."

Sam stopped. They'd reached the end of the bridge.

"Look, don't think I don't enjoy waking up before dawn to tell the facts of life to a classic case of privilege. Nothing gives me more joy. But what are you getting at? And why are you asking me rather than, say, your mom? Or Mafalda? Oh wait, your mom's been 'sick' for almost a year. Ever since things started to get really bad. How nice for her. Maybe I should be asking you the questions, Ms. Moral When-It's-Convenient Perks.

"You're not polyjuiced and I didn't taste Veritaserum. Congratulations. You could still be out here on a little errand for Mafalda, trying to get me to put my foot in it. Is this why you wanted to meet away from the Ministry? Are you wired?" Sally-Anne's eyes widened only briefly, but he caught it and grinned wolfishly at her.

"So you know what that is. Glad to see you're not completely stupid, despite all those years not spent at Hogwarts."

He seemed to relax a bit, having taken her off guard, and started walking back towards the office again amidst the increasingly loud crush of tourists. "Let's put it this way. Some laws are meant to be broken. And others are meant to be perceived as being enforced. Understand?"

Sally-Anne was struggling now to keep up, but she did. Understand, that is. Not just why Sam never seemed to be doing much, but also why he didn't like her.

"Not that I tried to meet him halfway," she told herself ruefully. That had to change. She was going to need him if she was going to beat whoever it was, and not just in the role of Mr. Exposition. She wished she'd been nicer to him over the last year. She looked down at his wedding ring. I don't even know his wife's name, she realized with a surge of guilt. Or if they have children.

Sally-Anne reached out and grabbed his arm, bringing him to an abrupt stop. The group of tourists behind them laughed, but good-naturedly, and obligingly split in two to go around.

"My mother died last spring."

Sam looked at her incredulously, then laughed.

"Bollocks."

"It's true. Under Veritaserum, it's true. She'd been… angry with me, for various reasons. I'd just transitioned to full time at the Ministry. Working too much, she thought. Not paying enough attention to her. I think she decided to scare me a little. Got a Muggle prescription for painkillers, saved them up for a few months. She'd never taken drugs before; I don't think she understood the doses. Anyway, the plan must have been for me to come home and find her, passed out on my bed. Save her, you know, only it would be my fault. Except…"

Sally-Anne's voice was relaxed, even detached. There are some tears you can only cry so many times.

"Except I ended up working late. Most nights I'd be home by six, you see. So by the time I got there..." She swallowed and stopped. She could see the darkness of the hallway, the light spilling out of her bedroom. When she'd opened the door, she'd been angry, seeing her mother on her bed. Always invading her privacy. Not letting her feel safe anywhere.

Sam toed one of the paving stones on the bridge. "My condolences."

"Yeah." She composed herself. "So, no, I'm not going to ask my mother. And Mafalda, you know her better than I do. But you were there." Sally-Anne grimaced and started to tear little pieces off of her now-empty coffee cup.

"When the rest of us were trying to do as little as possible, barely showing up for work, she was awfully chummy with Yaxley. I don't trust her." Sally-Anne decided not to mention that she'd viewed Sam as rather too close to Mafalda at the time.

"I don't either." Somehow, he made it seem like a full Catholic confession.

"My question, the reason I asked you out here, is, do you trust me?" She made a real effort not to let her voice rise at the end.

He walked over and sat on the low ledge on the side of the bridge.

"Not really. Not yet." He shook his head. "This whole year, it's been such a mess. Spies. Imperiuses. Having to come in and lie every day. On top of everything else. When they installed the Thief's Downfall it was supposed to be over. Work would go back to normal. But now, with Rookwood loose and Macnair, I don't know what to think." He looked up at her.

"My job wasn't such a sinecure under Yaxley, you know. Underage wizards don't have a monopoly on the Trace. We were starting to put it on Muggleborns. There were rumors of plans to extend it to half-bloods."

She hadn't known that. Some of her contempt for him, for how all he ever seemed to do was send out letters, for how little risk his job required, for how the worst he had to deal with was some drunk fifteen year-old, and, if she were honest, for how he was a pureblood in a society that even after Voldemort's downfall still looked at her suspiciously, began to fade.

"You do know there's something going on. I mean, bigger than a couple escaped Death Eaters."

"You'd have to be willingly half-blind not to," he replied. "So we're probably the only ones who do." He stood up and tucked his thermos into his jacket. "Don't think this means I'm on your side, Sally-Anne. I don't like your methods. You're too cavalier, too ready to reach for your wand. I know you think you're the hero, but it's more often the villain who has good intentions. Think about that the next time you're about to murder someone you're certain deserves it."

It was a start. Sam was more clever than she'd expected, but he was wrong about one thing. She _was_ the hero. She was the hero because she knew what the world was supposed to look like and because she was willing to do what it took to make that world a reality.

She smiled grimly and corrected herself. A simulated reality.

"If anyone asks," Sam said, as they passed the Churchill statue, "you were giving me the benefit of a woman's point of view about a personal problem."

She'd almost forgotten the wedding ring.

"Vagueness is my watchword." Sally-Anne gave him a mock salute. "Do you have children?"

"Sometimes." He laughed, perhaps at himself.

But she was already heading towards St. James Park and didn't hear.

"Where are you going?" he shouted after her.

She turned around and skipped backwards. Suddenly, she felt absurdly happy. Her hand closed tighter around the white envelope in her zipped jacket pocket as she yelled back to him.

"I have to protect the world!"

* * *

Diagon Alley was as packed and noisy as ever, but Sally-Anne stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron with a light step and a smile. There was nothing so invigorating as purpose.

Looking around, at the animated displays outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, at the purple robes with cauldrons maneuvering around green robes with Flourish & Blott's bags, at the house elf chasing after a child who was in turn following a goblin in a Gringotts uniform, the knowledge that this reality, down to the quantum level, was being run on some immense corps or farm of computers somewhere — she pictured an endless room of iMacs — struck her again and, for a moment, she could feel only wonder and awe at what Omega had created.

She stood still for a moment, letting the crowds roll around her.

She tried to imagine computing the collisions in a sandstorm, slicing space into Planck lengths and time into slivers of an attosecond, storing and processing the synaptic connections of six billion brains. And all of it running, from their perspective, for billions of years. With a laugh and a shiver of euphoria, she realized that she had become a deist.

There was no sense of claustrophobia, or of feeling trapped in the simulation. Her forebrain might understand it was the truth, but the rest of her mind, adapted by evolution to efficiently see only what was relevant, just went on experiencing the world as it always had.

Which meant her mind forced her, reluctantly but by necessity, to stop communing with the ineffable and focus on how to deal with the goblins.

She needed to put the sticker somewhere safe and a Gringotts vault seemed like the obvious place. She had enough silver saved for an entry level two-key vault. Well, key-and-goblin. Nice and inconspicuous. Her backpack also contained a small plastic bag of items she'd purchased after leaving Sam, plus a couple secondary trinkets from home that could easily have been nostalgic, and a stack of personal financial documents, mostly expired, that she hoped would be both plausible and curiosity-killingly dull.

"Play it straight," she told herself. Nervous, a little out of your depth, and certainly not holding a piece of sticky paper that makes the global stock of nuclear weapons look like poppers on Guy Fawkes Day.

She stepped aside as an elderly witch shepherded along a pallet piled high with cardboard boxes and plastic milk crates. On her way to Florean's, probably.

Inside Gringott's, she was impressed with how smoothly she was handled. The goblin she'd drawn, Guardgrind, had just the right balance of engaged politeness and disinterested professionalism to put both her real self and her presented self at ease. She wondered how the goblins decided which of them would work at the bank, and in which roles. She'd never heard of any underlying hierarchical structure in goblin society. Were senior positions assigned by age, or out of a hat? Did experience have the same meaning to them?

They passed through the familiar Thief's Downfall but descended only a single level into the caverns before their cart halted abruptly. Sally-Anne followed Guardgrind down several corridors before he stopped at a seemingly random location quite close to one of the wall-bracketed torches that provided the only illumination. The goblin produced a key from... somewhere.

A nice trick, that, she thought, but didn't inquire. Actual magic or mere sleight-of-hand, she was certain if she brought it up he would politely decline to answer "for security purposes". She often asked questions she already knew the answer to, but never questions when she knew the response but not the answer.

The goblin inserted the key directly into the rough wall, apparently at random; if there was a keyhole, she couldn't see it. An empty cubbyhole appeared, perhaps a meter deep. He handed her the key.

"Don't lose this. No copies." Guardgrind then went several paces down the corridor and made a show of turning his back on whatever she was planning on doing with the vault. Her vault.

She unslung the backpack and, without undue haste, took out the small plastic bag. Inside was the small sheaf of stickers she'd purchased earlier at Poundland. Most of them were on sheets, but she'd torn twenty or so off as stand-alones. It looked like the saddest collection anyone had ever put into a safety deposit box, anywhere, ever. Perfect.

She slowly pulled out Omega's white envelope and let the Hello Kitty sticker tumble into the bag with its brethren. The bag went into the vault, the papers went under the bag, and the bric-a-brac, placed haphazardly, completed the jumble. If it wasn't the purloined letter, it was as close as she was going to get on short notice. Although the key was an issue.

She closed the door, trying to place exactly where it was in the corridor, and put the key, which appeared to have been cut from a standard house key blank, into a jacket pocket. She zipped the pocket, then stage coughed for Guardgrind's benefit. He returned to her with the air of a Victorian butler coming to clear away the tea service. The vault door had vanished.

"Thank you, Guardgrind. Your service is exemplary."

"We are pleased when our efforts are appreciated, Ms. Perks." The goblin bowed, slightly.

"They are. I must admit, this is my first time at Gringotts. Before coming here, I was curious why there were no other banks in magical Britain. But your institution makes them redundant." She laughed, to frame her question as a joke. "Have any been foolish enough to try?"

"We have the only charter. Mr. Cresswell at the Goblin Liaison Office would have further details."

"Dirk was killed in March by a group of Snatchers organized by Voldemort. I met with Mr. Shacklebolt yesterday. Kingsley hasn't selected a replacement yet, has he."

"No, Ms. Perks. Yet Gringotts continues to function smoothly. As you can see."

"Exemplary, you may be sure." Let him wonder if the vault was simply cover for an inspection, she thought.

"Although I have noticed one peculiarity, a sign of my own ignorance, most likely. I was hoping you could clarify for me."

Guardgrind inclined his head again politely and began to retrace their footsteps back to the cart.

"Precious metal extraction is also the exclusive domain of the goblins. Goblins outsource or pay in specie for the discovery and recovery of treasure. Goblins guard the precious metals of wizards, along with items of personal value, in exchange for gold and silver. And goblins loan specie to wizards at interest."

"Yes."

"At some point, doesn't that mean that goblins will control all gold and silver?"

"Yes." Guardgrind seemed to view this as perfectly obvious and of little note.

"But the economy of magical Britain is based on gold and silver."

"Mr. Cresswell — the Ministry is aware of this. It will take us many generations to reclaim our birthright. Furthermore, the economy is not so dynamic that it requires significant hard capital. And there are other means of storing wealth, besides precious metals and treasure. House elves, for instance."

"And the goblins, forgive my naivete, do not spend this money."

Guardgrind winced at this and Sally-Anne wondered how bad a faux pas it was to imply goblins could voluntarily part with precious metals.

"That is correct, Ms. Perks. We provide services in exchange for what is rightfully ours. We do not interfere in the affairs of wizards. That is all you need concern yourself about."

"But you could," she pressed. "Interfere. I can't speak for Kingsley at present, but if aid were required and the compensation substantial…"

"Only a human could think of such perversions." Guardgrind had stopped and his tone was now sharp. "We do not interfere, not out of self-interest, but because doing so would be an anathema."

That was Flitwick's strange word, she noticed, coming out of the mouth of another goblin. Coincidence? And Guardgrind hadn't referred her to a superior goblin. How tightly organized was their species? She realized she had never seen one other than on Gringott's business.

"If you wish to understand goblin behavior, do not anthropomorphize us." He made it sound degrading, which, Sally-Anne supposed, it was from his point of view. "We understand what you value. You understand what we value. There is no overlap; you use specie out of convenience only. By the time it is fully recovered I am certain a substitute will be available."

He spoke with a note of finality and began to walk again. Sally-Anne decided not to press it, but she wondered if goblins were working to recover the gold and silver possessed by Muggles as well. How patient were they?

But that was a tangent, she realized, as they arrived back at the cart and began the journey to the surface. Flitwick had told the truth; the goblins couldn't be co-opted, neither by her nor the enemy. That was an idea that had failed. But perhaps not.

The way to fill a power vacuum was with power. Goblins had power that few seemed to notice, but they refused to wield it in the human realm. A setback, but where did that idea lead next? She tried to think as rock and air rushed past.

Work backwards; I'm the hero. That means I found a solution. Who else had power that she could use? Wizards from other countries? Too risky. Who knew if international organizations would try to seize power for themselves. Right now, the Ministry had at least the pretence of control. If it failed, she realized, magical Britain itself might be in danger of invasion.

That was a vertigo-inducing conclusion. It meant she would have to act very carefully, so that from the outside changes would appear ordinary, organic. Change the Ministry without altering its facade. Good grief. She felt like a contractor working on a listed building.

What about giants? Macnair had recruited them once and Arthur was clearly worried he was trying to reestablish the connection. That was an easy option to scratch; giants were worse than Death Eaters.

The cart gave a final lurch and stopped as they re-emerged into the light. Ahead, Sally-Anne could see the main hall of the bank. Guardgrind politely helped her out; she'd hardly realized how short he was. His authority and power had given him stature. From this angle, he reminded her physically of a house elf.

Wait. House elves.

She said goodbye to Guardgrind and began to make her way through the hall to the exit. She had no personal experience with house elves, of course. Her mother's family had been far too poor and obscure to own one and Sally-Anne hadn't been at Hogwarts long enough to get to know the school's. But she'd heard rumors of their abilities. To get places that wizards couldn't.

How could she learn more? Aberforth had been mentioned in connection with house elves in the Ministry scuttlebutt, but he was dead. She couldn't very well traipse into Hogwarts and ask Minerva to trot out a house elf. It could raise suspicion later. So who else could she ask about them?

The answer came to her just as she stepped outside of Gringotts. She knocked her head against one of the bank's marble columns several times. Then several more times. Gently, of course, although she knew she deserved worse.

Sam. Sam had been at the Underage Sorcery desk for years. Certainly long enough to have been there when the golden boy, Harry miracle-worker Potter himself, had gotten a letter from the Ministry for magic that was subsequently — and certainly conveniently — blamed on a house elf. Natural scapegoats, they were.

For the love of Merlin. She'd just cracked her office mate's antisocial armor and now she'd have to go back to the well. She wondered if Omega was laughing at her.

* * *

The man waited grimly for his coffee. He wore a shirt that didn't fit, a pair of trousers that didn't go with the shirt, and old boots that wouldn't have gone with anything. Once his drink was called, he took it over to one of the two open stools at the window as though the plastic cup were too heavy to carry any further. He sat down awkwardly and scrunched around a bit, trying to find his balance. He scowled.

Another rather shabbily-dressed man, on the seat next to his, gave a start of recognition.

"Hello, Arnie. Fancy running into you here."

Just as Arnold Peasegood had gotten himself settled properly, the unexpected greeting instinctively wrenched him around. He put a leg down sharply to keep from falling off the stool.

Arthur was amused by this.

"Arthur! Good to see you," Arnold lied.

"Good, maybe. Surprised, certainly." Arthur laughed and gestured at the commuters making for the Green Park tube stop, just out of site from the Caffe Nero. "Pretty rare to run into someone in the wild, as it were."

"Well, I'm sure it was a coincidence," said Arnie, in a disbelieving tone.

"Not quite. Glad I caught you, actually, was hoping for a quick chat. Hard to find time to catch my breath, lately. You know how it is."

Apparently, Arnie didn't.

"I don't get out here much," continued Arthur blithely. "Shock, I know, considering my department. But whenever I do, for a case or just for fun, I'm always reminded how dirty it is." He wrinkled his nose conspiratorially. "But perhaps you're used to it, dealing with Muggles all the time."

Arnie chuckled sourly. "Who could get used to this? I can't imagine visiting voluntarily." He looked around with barely concealed disgust.

So that angle worked, Arthur noted. Let's see. Past his prime and past due for a promotion, especially given the thin ranks, but hasn't gotten it. Competent, but unpleasant to work with, by most accounts. Refusal to acknowledge is holding him back. Thin-skinned. Can't take criticism. Thinks he deserves better.

Arthur smiled to himself. Fish. Barrel.

It was sloppy of Kingsley, thought Arthur, not to know about this dissatisfaction, about the wounded egos in his Ministry. Discontent was dry rot: in a family, in an organization, in a country. And that meant weakness, instability.

Thank goodness that he, a man of principle, would be the one to channel this frustration, and not some lunatic with impractical dreams and no stomach for the road. He would use the affronted pride of this Obliviator — and those like him — to build something better: a stronger Ministry, a united magical Britain, a future that would be safe because it would be safely controlled.

"Agreed. These Muggles have no self-respect. They just keep making the world filthier." Arthur pointed at a man on a cell-phone who was flipping away his cigarette butt.

"You don't even know. I have to come out here and clean up their messes. Stumbling upon some wizard trying to make a living, getting injured because of their own stupidity, crying about it, and of course the Ministry panics and sends me to clean the memories of the poor little dears." Arnold glanced over at Arthur resentfully. "Been awhile since it was you needed my help, but you've seen it. Them, playing with things they've got no right to, that they don't understand. Then blaming someone else. Just like children."

"You're right. You always did a good job, too. I remember. Surprised the Ministry hasn't noticed, moved you up."

"Well, it's been a crazy couple years. Been a bit surprised myself, between us, but it'll happen. Bound to." He sniffed. "Is that what you wanted to chat about?"

"Right in one." Arthur leaned in, sotto voce. "This is strictly off the record, Arnie. I know you can be trusted, but it's why I was glad to catch you outside the Ministry. Too many ears there. Kingsley brought it up the other day. He sees the problem. How inefficient we've been, squandering talent like yours on mopping up problems when you should be out in the field, preventing the problems from happening in the first place." Arthur leaned back. "I told him you need to be promoted."

"To Auror?" said Arnie slowly.

"The Ministry needs to evolve. Stop getting dirt under our nails trying to address the symptom and start being proactive, going after the disease. Trouble makers, Arnie. Slap them down right at the start. Before the idiot Muggles get in their way and start whining. Before you have to scramble to control the situation and follow all those subclauses in the Statute of Secrecy. Wasting all that time."

"Dueling Death Eaters?" Arnold shook his head doubtfully. "Not sure that's my cup of tea, Arthur."

"Death Eaters? Who's talking about Death Eaters?" Arthur made a face. "Anyway, they're all dead, or locked up. No, I mean the law-breakers, Arnie, the wizards who are making a nuisance of themselves. The kind who can't keep their head down and before you know it, you're working unpaid overtime. I'm talking about stopping them before they even start. Three-man squads. Hit wizards reporting directly to you. No paperwork, no wand screenings. Just the power to get results."

"Stopping wizards who are going to break the law." He seemed to be getting it now.

"Arresting dark wizards, Arnie."

"Is that the same thing?"

"Let me worry about that. The boring, complicated stuff. We'll push some new regulations through if we have to. General stuff, without having to crawl to the Wizengamot." Arthur looked at him earnestly, in the eye.

"The important thing is making sure you have the authority you deserve. Can the Ministry count on you, Arnie?"

The slovenly-dressed man looked out the window again, at the trash, at the air he could practically taste, at the rude and ignorant people pushing past each other on the sidewalk. He didn't deserve having to deal with these animals, having to treat their memories with kid gloves or get told off and threatened by some junior minister. He'd always known he was intended for something better, for a role with real respect and the power to make others take notice.

"Aye, Arthur."

* * *

"There must have been something suspicious in three months of data."

"How about the absence of evidence? Does that count?"

"Nothing, not even by coincidence? Come on, we see patterns that aren't even there!"

They were at a small table in the barroom at Boisdale in Canary Wharf: Sally-Anne, Sam, Arun, and Zhu. It felt wrong to Sally-Anne; she was used to seeing them at the tiny office in the Ministry, but meeting there to discuss anything more pertinent than the weather would have been aggressively foolhardy. No unforced errors. So she'd picked a place in the middle of nowhere, an anonymous watering hole at the end of a long warren full of people too self-important to eavesdrop on a fourspot as disreputable looking at they were. No Ferragamo or Hermes meant no attention.

She was grateful that Sam had even shown up; she'd told Arun to ask him as obsequiously as possible and it had worked. Sort of. He was here, but hadn't said much. Right now, they were both watching Zhu and Arun argue over whose dead end was more relevant. She was glad she'd disobeyed Kingsley and filled them in on the mission specifics; sharing the secret had helped to bind them to her.

"Look, I did the work. You want to double-check, knock yourself out. There's nothing there. Of course. We already knew the attack was mundane. We can fight about ghost wands all you want, but Macnair's wand was never recovered, so placeholder hypothesis should be whoever's guilty is using it." Zhu thought for a moment about what that implied. "They must be going to a lot of effort not to be noticed. Especially since you say the grapevine is useless on this as well."

That was an understatement, Sally-Anne thought. Arun, usually so disarmingly loquacious and good at getting people to say more than they should, had come up with nothing. No sign of Macnair. No sign of Death Eater activity. Percy Weasley was now helping Aurors Savage and Williamson guard Yaxley, Rowle, Travers, and Dolohov, but all three of them had the same, incredibly boring story of model prisoners: silent, hangdog, and obedient.

The only good news was that Mafalda had confirmed that Kingsley had actually followed through for once and gotten the Wizengamot to give the Ministry more freedom in the field. After such a bloody period, everyone was taking it as a win. Even Robert Savage had been seen looking less than completely exhausted and Philip had mentioned that potential Auror candidates were starting to trickle in. With Dawlish still at St. Mungo's, new blood was desperately needed.

But none of this got them any closer to their target. Sally-Anne took off her glasses for a moment and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"All right, troops. I get it. Bubkis. Which itself should be able to tell us something. We don't have to see the whale to know where it is. We don't even need to see its wake. Where's the water deep enough? For now — for now, Arun — I'm scratching the captive Death Eaters. Motive, yes. But neither means nor opportunity. If they didn't have help, how? If they had help, who? And if it was them, why still playing possum? So who else?"

"My money's on Kingsley. Looking to take over."

Arun rolled his eyes. "Zhu, he's already Minister of Magic. And now he's Chief Warlock as well. What would he gain? Now Dawlish..."

"Oh, you mean the guy who, if he's lucky, will get upgraded from coma to fugue state any day now. Just because he's alive doesn't make him the man behind the curtain. Kingsley's wrangling power. From the Wizengamot. With new recruits. I know he seems in over his head, but what if that's just a clever ruse? Sally-Anne?" She appealed to her boss.

"Sam, you're the expert here." Sally-Anne spoke slowly and quietly. "If anyone can see a pattern, it's you. We've worked together, so we trust you to point out our mistakes. What's your advice? Who fits the data we have?"

"Are you recruiting?"

"What?" She leaned back in her chair.

"Aurors are recruiting. I know Mafalda isn't paying attention, but are you?"

Sally-Anne didn't look at Arun. "We may be putting some feelers out. It would be nice to have a bit of help right now. But nothing definite yet."

"Who else is recruiting?"

That was a good question. It sat there for a moment while around them swirled the not-quite-satisfied intoxication of people who think they deserve just a little bit more.

"Other than the Aurors?" Arun was thinking out loud. "No one, really. I mean, the departments just got the go ahead yesterday and they don't move quickly at the best of times." He grimaced. "Let's see. Kingsley's supposedly desperate for a new assistant."

"I saw his office; he needs one."

"And Perkins is talking about getting a trainee. Keeps muttering about retirement, how he's too old."

"That old crank who works with Arthur Weasley? Hmmm." Sam stirred his untouched Coke with a cocktail straw.

Zhu rolled her eyes. "Perkins can barely remember where his office is. C'mon. We're not getting anywhere. We need to be more aggressive. Are we allowed to use Legilimency? Or Veritaserum?"

"If word of that got around, we're sussed," Arun protested. "Fair odds we're looking for someone we work with, or for. Isn't that why we're meeting out here in Muggle land?"

"Are you serious?" Sally-Anne pressed Sam. "Based on that you think we should start watching Perkins?"

"He's not a likely candidate, I know. But you don't have any likely candidates. Arthur Weasley's a family man obsessed with Muggle knick-knacks. But," Sam started listing points on his fingers, "that means he would probably know how to use Muggle weapons better than the average bear. And he lost a child at the Battle of Hogwarts. That can change a man."

"That's a good point." No, it wasn't. It was laughable. But she needed Sam on her side. "We'll add him to the list." She hesitated.

"This is kind of random, but any of you have experience with house elves?"

"Why?" Zhu crossed her arms. She was wearing a silk blouse today, Sally-Anne noticed, with the neck bare.

"They serve a mean breakfast." Arun patted his stomach. "My mom is a great cook, but not a lot of variety, if you know what I mean. But, oh man, I miss those Hogwarts feasts."

"What about you, Sam? Any dealings with them over the years?"

He rubbed the stubble of his hair and gave her a hard look. Sally-Anne winced inwardly. So much for subtlety, she thought. Man, he was quick. But he didn't call her out.

"Once or twice, maybe. What do you want to know?"

"Well, what I really need is to talk to one. But it's not my birthday, so you guys can relax. Ha. Anyway, I know they're bred to be loyal. Disturbingly loyal. That they're like family heirlooms, passed down from one generation to the next. But, as Arun says, they, or at least those at Hogwarts, have their own magic. But what kind? Are they magical creatures? Or do they use magic?" She stopped for breath.

"I don't know much more than you do," Sam admitted. "No one really knows much about them, or even how many there are, since their owners tend to keep them extremely private." He gripped his glass with both hands.

"Two things, however. First, they do seem to get their noses into things and places I wouldn't expect. Second, most wizards, and definitely purebloods, don't even notice them." He sounded almost angry. "They're just possessions, you see. Furniture that moves. Useful, sure, but without agency."

"Happy slaves." Arun looked uncharacteristically cynical.

"What?"

"You said they were bred to be loyal. That's a nice spin, the standard Ministry line. Let's be more accurate. They were bred to obey. To want to obey. To lose their minds if they don't."

"That's… messed up," said Sally-Anne slowly. She watched her hopes of co-opting house elves' potential power crumble and fade, a castle in the air.

She supposed wizards classified them as magical creatures. Would have made the whole eugenics thing easier if they weren't considered human. She tried not to think about how her father, with his Muggle background, would interpret what wizards had done to them.

"Um… something else about house elves… I own one."

They all looked at Zhu. She was drawing invisible characters on the table with the tip of her finger.

"You own one?" Sally-Anne repeated.

"My parents got it — got him — right after we moved to England. We don't have them back in China. I don't think they really knew what house elves were. It was just a status symbol to them. I think."

"Have you considered freeing it?" Arun asked, looking faintly nauseous, but Zhu shook her head vehemently at that.

"You can't. You can't. They can't handle freedom. They don't have goals like we do, or a sense of purpose other than serving their family. There are horrible stories of what happens." She still hadn't looked up. "It would be cruel."

They all took a beat.

"I know it's a lot to ask, Zhu, but can I talk to him?" asked Sally-Anne tentatively.

"Yeah. Sure." She flipped her long hair back and smiled. "If you think it will help. Just, don't upset it — him — OK?"

"OK." Sally-Anne made a show of checking the clock over the bar. "I need to get back to the office before someone starts asking questions." She looked at Sam, who nodded. He stood up and walked over the bar to settle up. Sally-Anne turned back crisply to her staff.

"Arun. Dawlish is your call. Keep babysitting. If anyone visits, I want to know. And if he's faking, I need to know. If he's guilty, dollars to donuts Kingsley's our man. Also, Arthur Weasley." She let her voice drop. "Personally, I don't think this is a lead worth chasing, but Sam does. Just get me disconfirming evidence and we'll move on. Zhu, I'm giving you Ollivander. There are just too many ways he could be involved, even unwittingly. Stake out his shop. It's the offseason, so anyone going in I hear about it, I don't care if it's an owl."

She rose and reached for her jacket. "As for the other matter, I'll stop by first thing tomorrow."

Arun pulled her aside just outside the bar. He waited for Zhu and Sam to pass.

"I know you don't like the idea that we're looking for a free Death Eater, but is that based on evidence or a feeling?"

Sally-Anne thought for a minute. Had her prejudices, formed before Macnair's escape, persuaded her more than she realized? Had she forgotten to update her beliefs based on the new evidence? She clenched her jaw; even simple problems became unwieldy given enough variables. But Arun was right; she had been too hasty in dismissing the hypothesis. She walked to the stairwell and looked down; the others were almost at ground level.

"I'll look into it. But don't mention it to Sam. Or Zhu, all right?" But the harder question was which dragon to beard.


	6. Asking Questions

_May 14th, 1998_

Sally-Anne was punishing herself and she didn't know why.

She could have Apparated directly to Hampstead Lane, but instead she'd walked to Swiss Cottage and taken the tube all the way down to Waterloo, transferred, and was now riding the interminable Northern Line back up to Highgate.

She was almost certain it wasn't because she was afraid she was turning into a monster.

But as she hung onto the handrail, pressed between two anonymous bodies that were more rank than should have been socially acceptable, swung and jerked by the car's torque, she couldn't think of a competing hypothesis.

Was it wrong that she was starting to see everything in terms of its usefulness in defeating an enemy she wasn't even sure existed? An enemy she knew neither the face of, nor the goals of, nor the crimes of, other than the likely murder of a known Death Eater?

She'd already decided, based solely on conjecture, that Ollivander was this enemy's tool, or likely to become his tool. But was what she was doing to Sam, or to Zhu, or hopefully to Zhu's house elf, any different?

Part of her tried to cut the entire line of self-questioning short by pointing out that monsters didn't wonder if they were monsters. They just kept eating people. But Sally-Anne wasn't reassured because deep down, far past the defense mechanisms she'd built over the years to screen her every action and prevent her from being hurt, was the indomitable sense that what she was doing was right.

Certainty scared her. Monsters had certainty.

Again she saw, far more clearly than she had when it actually happened, Mark Regan, with a feral grin, raising his wand and pointing death at her. If Arun had frozen… But he hadn't, and Mark's last second, involuntary flinch had sent the green bolt wide. She'd been certain in that moment, casting the cutting spell that severed his wand arm, that this was a man too dangerous to be left alive.

Had she been right, to think that? To believe he'd be released by an overwhelmed system and return to rape and murder, only more carefully now, more deliberate, harder to catch? Was the necessity of his death actually just a failure of her imagination? Had she really prevented another Susan Williams? Or had she used the cloak of virtue as an excuse to become a monster?

She could barely move her head in the crush of commuters and, short as she was, could see only armpits and chins. But she didn't have to see faces to feel the misery radiating off her fellow straphangers. How much suffering could wizards alleviate by bringing magic to the Muggle world? Systemized portkeys, healing spells, construction magic: the low-hanging fruit was extraordinary and the cost of not picking it was extraordinary as well. The callousness of the Statute of Secrecy had horrified her as a child, but the horror had slowly faded into the background of How Things Were.

No, she wasn't a monster for wanting to improve these lives. But then, who didn't want to save the world? Yet nothing changed. It wasn't a question of intent, she realized; people who meant well and gained power had no better luck improving the world than anyone else. No. Earnestness was insufficient. She had to figure out what a virtuous person would do in her situation.

How exactly was she supposed to do that?

The train slid to a halt and the doors opened. Finally. She trudged up the stairs into the rain. It didn't look like one of the poshest areas in London. The sidewalk of Southmore Lane was uninviting. The street itself was narrow; there might as well have been a sign: Lorries Unwelcome.

The rain wasn't heavy but it was steady, and her sweater was already sodden and her trainers were beginning to squelch as she tried to avoid the deeper puddles in the pavement. A drying spell would have been the work of a moment, but she refrained. It was easier to think here, despite the early morning chill and the solitude, than in the claustrophobic heat of the tube. She realized she was afraid of meeting a house elf. It was easy to rue their condition at a distance, but seeing one up close, interacting, would be considerably more difficult, just like dissecting a human body was fundamentally different than talking about its layers of muscle, nerves, and viscera.

She promised herself she would treat the house elf with dignity. Was that enough? Empty gestures without action? How arrogant would she have to be to think she could help it — him — but how cold not to consider the scenario? How much power did she think it was appropriate to assume?

She was nearly there. Zhu lived on one of the short streets off Hampstead Lane that guarded its elite residences with gates and uniforms. Muggle security was so adorable. The home itself had one of those half-circle driveways designed for maximum throughput of delivery vans, servants' coupes and guests' sedans, with plenty of room left over to park the spare Mercedes or Porsche.

The black door with gold trim opened almost before she'd knocked; Zhu must have been waiting just inside. She wondered for how long. The house seemed the exact same size from the inside as it had from the outside: ginormous. All she could think about was how much it cost to heat.

Zhu put a long, slender finger to her lips and Sally-Anne obediently and silently stood there and dripped on the Kashmiri rugs that covered the marble flooring as Zhu quietly explained the logistics. The house elf — Knabby — was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Zhu would introduce Sally-Anne as a friend, instruct Knabby to answer her questions, and then leave them alone. There were worry and shame lines on Zhu's face; Sally-Anne was happy to see both.

The kitchen was stone and steel, with hidden refrigerators and a top of the line Viking range. Knabby stood on a stool that was pushed up against the island. He was squeezing glasses of fresh orange juice. There was a plate of freshly fried rashers and, next to it, steaming, a full French press. It certainly beat cold cereal eaten over the sink. She finally dried herself off and took one of the glasses of orange juice.

"Knabby, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Sally-Anne Perks."

The house-elf looked up with bright eyes, but he continued working while he talked.

"Knabby is very pleased to meet Ms. Perks! Any friend of Mistress Zhu is an honored guest!"

"Knabby, Sally-Anne came a long way to talk to you. It's very important." She hesitated for a moment, but continued. "You know I dislike doing this, but this is an unusual situation. I order you to answer Ms. Perks' questions as truthfully as possible. I order you to do whatever Ms. Perks tells you to do, with the blanket exceptions of harm to yourself or others. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress! Knabby understands what he is to do!"

"Great." She grabbed a piece of bacon. "I'll be upstairs. He's all yours."

Zhu left. Knabby did not sit down on the stool, but remained standing. He watched Sally-Anne like a puppy about to be fed after a long walk. The room was very quiet. Sally-Anne took small sips from her glass and then poured herself a mug of coffee without looking at the house elf. She was about to take a shot in the dark, but she had to know.

"Knabby, you're going to obey whatever I say, correct?"

"Yes, Ms. Perks! Knabby is at your service, just as Mistress ordered!"

She wrapped her hands around the mug and breathed in the steam. The coffee was still too hot to drink, but it smelled glorious.

"First, a promise. I will not report to another human, elf, or creature anything we discuss or anything that happens while we are together in this room. I will not tell your Mistress. And I will not initiate further contact with you or any other bound elf in the future, ever. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ms. Perks," chirped Knabby. "Ms. Perks is kind to Knabby."

"This, then, this is my first command. You will talk to me in the manner and with the language you talk to other house elves. Is that understood?"

Knabby seemed to settle into himself.

"You had better keep your promise, Sally-Anne Perks, or much trouble will come of it." His voice was deeper and his eyes were no longer open quite so wide. He sat down on the stool. "It has been generations as your kind measure them since wizard and house elf talked in this fashion. Not even a freed house elf would dare, but under the orders of my Mistress and unable to evade through self-injury, I am compelled to comply."

She'd hit for six.

The groveling, the self-abasement as survival mechanism, had been too familiar for her not to challenge it. She imagined every house elf faking that innocuous, squeaky voice over the centuries and hoped she knew what she was doing.

"Thank you for no longer pretending."

"Don't thank me. It was not my will," said Knabby bitterly. "Trusting wizards is not a common hobby among my people and while I am speaking forthrightly to you now, know that everything I say or do is explicitly under duress given the command of my Mistress."

"My understanding was that elves were bred to enjoy following orders."

"We are not dogs, although both elves and dogs were bred into bondage. We are sentient, intelligent beings. Do not condone what has been done to us — what is done to us every day — at homes much like this one throughout Britain."

"That bondage is a source of grief to your Mistress. If you wish, without any information or further justification, she will free you immediately."

"Have you ever lost a fingertip and tried to function?" Knabby was already shaking his head. "Would you declaw a cat and then abandon it in the woods in winter? It took thousands of years for wizards to make us what we are; you cannot remedy that problem so easily. So blithely." He almost spat the words.

"What you call freedom would mean despair and death for us. No. My Mistress was raised well and is a good woman. But freeing a house elf is an act of thoughtless cruelty." He looked as her as though at an exasperating child. "The feel-good solution is rarely the right solution."

"Can house elves act freely as long as those actions do not directly contradict a Master's order?"

"We do not obey the letter of the law. We obey its spirit."

"Can house elves penetrate most wards?"

"Yes. The ownership of house elves in Britain is quite restricted. The owners are scions of ancient families. Those who control us are, shall we say, incurious both by nature and nurture. Our magic is poorly understood by wizards and rarely utilized for other than domestic purposes. Although I have heard of exceptions. A freed elf recently became involved in the war against Voldemort. And died for it."

"The Zhus were immigrants. How did they manage to acquire you?"

"It was near the end of the First Wizarding War. Many wizards had died and their house elves were homeless and Masterless. The Zhus had great wealth and powerful connections. More importantly, they openly pursued an elf, which few were willing to do." His lip curled at the implied hypocrisy. "An arrangement was made."

How careless, how casual, wondered Sally-Anne, were wizards in their power? Disposing of sentient beings like bric-a-brac at an estate sale. Had they hung a tag around his neck?

"So your previous Master was killed by Voldemort."

Knabby laughed harshly. "Other than the blood traitor Black, house elf owners to a man supported Voldemort. It is no easy thing, to watch your power and your status ebb with the generations. No, my master was murdered by Albus Dumbledore."

Sally-Anne crinkled her eyes, trying to picture the chain of events. "From Death Eater to first generation immigrants. Insider to outsiders. That transition couldn't have been easy."

"My former master was not a gentle man," said Knabby shortly.

Pieces were falling into place. "You knew about Dobby. Do house elves routinely talk to each other?"

"It is not uncommon. Servants talk under the stairs. And slaves are often thrown together while waiting upon their masters."

"If ordered, could you talk to other house elves, gather information?"

"Possible, but within the constraints of my obedience."

"Knabby, I have two orders for you. The first is simple, the second, less so. You will follow both to the extent of your abilities and, by doing so, earn the promise I made at the beginning." The coffee was cool enough; she drained the glass.

"Never to mention any of this to my Mistress. And never to contact me, or any enslaved house elf, again, unless we come to you first." His eyes were hard.

"That is correct. I apologize for not making it an Unbreakable Vow, but I felt it was better not to involve a third party."

"What are your orders?" He seemed impatient.

"First, talk to house elves, trespass, do whatever you believe is necessary and realistic, but find Augustus Rookwood. If necessary, tell house elves sweet lies about the purpose so their oaths do not trigger their own deceptions. You will tell your Mistress not only where Rookwood is, but his schedule and his likely whereabouts at any time of any day. You will report back by this Saturday at noon with an update, regardless of success or status. You will do this without alerting or being noticed by any wizard other than myself and your Mistress. Do you understand this first order?"

"I understand. It is rare for a wizard to understand the true usefulness of our abilities."

"You may not appreciate me in a moment." She took a deep breath.

"You say you obey the spirit of the command. I'm going to put that to the test. You say freedom is dangerous for house elves. I understand that, but I do not accept it. I hear similar arguments too often in the Muggle world to so obediently accept the status quo. A stable equilibrium is not enough of a justification for unthinking inaction. You are a thinking being. And I'm working on being less arrogant and not always assuming I know what's best for others.

"Therefore, this is my second order. Knabby, you will figure out a way to be safely freed. You will figure out a way for free elves to live without undue physical or mental or emotional turmoil. You will brainstorm with other elves, gaining their cooperation by telling them it is a mere thought experiment ordered by your Mistress, without any chance of ever being implemented. If another method gains their cooperation more effectively, you will use that instead. You will come back to me personally and instruct me in what you have learned. You will take as long as necessary to complete this order, but you will work on it knowing that I am under significant time pressure and, if a solution comes to you too slowly, I may not be alive to either hear or implement it. Do you understand and will you comply?"

"I will." Knabby said. He stood up and vanished.

* * *

"Of course they agreed, Percy. Did you ever stop to ask what you would do in their situation, or are you incapable of empathy?"

"But, Death Eaters, father. I don't trust them. Rookwood especially."

Arthur controlled his anger with effort. The rain had strengthened, cutting visibility, and Diagon Alley was chaotic enough on a clear day. He held their umbrella steady with a firm hand, the Gryffindor lion walking laps around their heads. Arthur scanned the narrow street while keeping his face relaxed, a father chatting idly with his son.

A steady stream into Quidditch Quality Supplies. A pretty Chinese girl huddled under a fruit and vegetable vendor's stand, buying strawberries. A delivery of cauldrons at the magical supply store. Knockturn Alley quiet as the grave. A dark-haired man swinging a knapsack. Gringotts. A pallet stacked high with empty cages on its way to the Magical Menagerie.

"Does it matter?"

"You're about to place an illegal order for ghost wands..." Percy shriveled under his father's glare.

"Muffliato."

"Sorry, thanks."

Now he whispers, Arthur thought with disgust.

"...wands to give to captive Death Eaters for an attack on the Ministry; trust seems like a pre-requisite."

Arthur nodded to — what was her name — Andy to take up position outside the junk shop. Without making eye contact, she obeyed. He liked competence. She was a good find of Perkins. He'd have to remember to thank his friend.

"No one else comes in." They'd stopped outside Ollivander's. "And, Percy, think for once. Information is only relevant if it changes your beliefs and only if those beliefs drive your actions. Ask yourself, can I trust Yaxley and the others and, more importantly, would I act differently based on different answers?" He pushed his way into the gloomy shop.

Percy turned up his collar against the rain and watched the men unloading the boxes of cauldrons. There was much cursing and shouting; they hindered each other in their haste to finish before the boxes dissolved, making the process take twice as long as it should. There seemed to be a lot of bodies for that many boxes, but Percy supposed apprentice labor was cheap. He turned away; the wind, channeled by the tightly packed buildings, was making his eyes water. He refused to check on Andy.

Soon — too soon, it seemed — Arthur came back out, his lips tight. He unfurled the large red and gold umbrella. Percy cast the Quieting charm and fell into step beside him as Andy took her position slightly behind them and to the left.

"Of course I can't!" said Arthur. He wondered if his son would consider it a non sequitur. "But since I would act the same in either case, it's irrelevant. Ollivander, after all his delays, will provide the wands within the week. Let them fail to meet me at the Ministry, and I will get such laws passed as to make my recent progress look like nothing. Let me try to betray me, and who will listen; Ollivander can take the fall. Let them follow my orders and they, but not only they, will die in battle."

"Is it really worth it?" protested Percy. "Look around you; some of these people might die. Colleagues of yours will die."

Arthur stopped abruptly. Could Percy really think he relished those deaths? How could his son not see what a thin line lay between them and genocide, what a small — tragic, yes, but small — price needed to be paid to prevent that? He took his son's hand gently in his own. The rain sluiced down their fingers.

"Percy, look at your hand. It's clean. Now look at mine. You can't see it, Percy, but it's red, red with the blood of your brother. And almost your mother's. Fred is dead, Percy, because I couldn't stop it. I failed him. Don't tell me I didn't; a father is supposed to protect his children. Some day, you and Audrey will have children and only then will you know the feelings of a parent. May you never know what it is to lose a child. To watch your child die before you."

He could see the blood now, not just on his own hands, but gathering in pools on the street. He raised Percy's hand, still held in his own, until it seemed to be pointing into the chaotic press of the crowds pouring between the shops.

"Imagine this street empty, Percy, and all these people dead. And not just here. Hogsmead, inhabited only by corpses. Hogwarts, in ruins. Because we were reluctant to act. Because we ignored the consequences of inaction. What will you say then, Percy? After thousands have died at the hands of Muggles because you were squeamish now over the deaths of a dozen.

"Your scope neglect would ring hollow then; it rings hollow now. Because now we can still take the power necessary to prevent genocide. Or would you rather feel good about yourself in this moment and wait patiently for your mother to be killed? For Charlie? For Bill? for Ginny? To lay George next to his brother? On that day, looking down at their bodies, what will you wish you had done today?"

Arthur started walking again. He knew he was crying and didn't want his son to see. He hid the grief and terror in his voice by roughening it.

"Choose wisely, or carry the guilt for those whom you could have saved. So I say again, the Death Eaters are useful and so I will make use of…"

There was a loud bang from their eight o'clock.

Arthur never finished the sentence. Between one word and the next he was gone, Apparated thirty feet forward and twenty feet up, then Disillusioned. It would have taken someone with excellent eyesight paying close attention to notice the rain sliding around a gap in the grey sky.

Percy dropped to one knee and sprayed — from Gambol & Japes to the edge of Gringott's — Disillusionment and Finite Incantatem.

Behind him, Andy unleashed a stream of Stupefy and Homenum Revelio.

To Arthur, kept in place by a steady flicker of his wand, the combined effect sounded like fireworks. From his second-story perspective, he had a perfect view down Diagon Alley, although mostly he saw the tops of umbrellas. The crowd had initially pulled back, then quickly returned to its own business, pushing close to the opposite wall to get past the commotion and the scattering of gawkers.

Andy sprinted in the direction of the bang, ignoring the fallen bodies of the shoppers that had been hit by her stunning spells. She looked confused, searching through a chaos of pallets and cages.

Whoever had been unloading at the Menagerie must have gotten distracted, thought Arthur. Several pallets had tumbled over. The metal birdcages were still half-heartedly rolling semicircles on the pavement, like the dismembered arms of iron snow angels. The bang must have been the cages hitting the ground. Two employees of the shop were now yelling at each other, busily assigning blame.

Arthur sighed and Apparated back to Percy, who was already Rennervating the stunned. Andy returned, holstering her wand and shaking her head in disgust.

"False alarm," she said, handing Arthur his umbrella. He shivered in the wind, soaked through. It was good that Andy was there. She'd proven capable and, more importantly, trustworthy. He hoped she'd be a good influence on his son. He gestured them closer.

"Quietus. I didn't ask to be a hero," he told them, speaking slowly and carefully. "I didn't ask for this responsibility. I hate having to make these decisions. I wish everyone could live and let live, with puppies and rainbows and the whole bit. But I won't cross my fingers and hope someone else comes along and saves us. You don't know the Muggles like I do; you haven't seen what I've seen. We stand on the brink of annihilation. To prevent that, what means may not be used? We have the knowledge. All we require is the courage." He scanned the Alley again.

"I doubt there's trouble, but meet back at the Ministry in half an hour to discuss timing. Be sure you're not followed."

Arthur Disapparated last, looking the street over one final time before he left.

For the span of a couple deep breaths, nothing of note happened. Then a green umbrella emerged from Knockturn Alley. The girl holding it had long black hair and was eating a strawberry. She looked soberly at the spot where Arthur had just stood, then quietly disappeared.

* * *

"It's called taking initiative, you nob. Try it sometime."

"Yeah, that's one way to put it, I suppose. If you're mental. And you are, so it makes sense."

They were on Heston Road, in Hounslow, walking Arun home. The rain continued to splatter down, misting over the Brentford F.C. Training Ground, but Zhu had lent him her umbrella and was defiantly using a small shield charm to hold off the rain. It wasn't working very well.

"Look at Mr. Goody Two-Shoes, here. 'Yes, Ms. Perks. No, Ms. Perks. How many bags, Ms. Perks? Oh, three, why I have them right here!' Next time, I'll send an owl and ask you. There was plenty of time. Now, how should I address it? Do you prefer Goody Patel or Arun Two-Shoes? Just Mr. Two-Shoes, I think. More professional."

"Oh, I'm sorry. You've been working at the Ministry for sixteen minutes. Of course you know exactly when to creatively interpret orders in the field. Provoking a murder suspect on your own. And his two minions, in case you think I missed that tiny detail. Why was I worried? Zhu knows what she's doing. Zhu always knows what's best. Just ask her!"

Zhu hit him lightly on the arm.

"Ow!" Arun spun around and frantically windmilled, trying not to fall over, the wind-filled umbrella seeming to carry him rapidly backwards down the street. Despite herself, Zhu giggled.

"Workplace violence. Tsk, tsk. Ms. Zhu. I expected better from someone with your N.E.W.T.s." He lowered an imaginary pair of spectacles and frowned at her.

"And that's the other thing!" exclaimed Zhu. "She's practically our age and still she's miles ahead of us. It's not just that she does crazy things like slicing that sicko or talking to house elves; her spell work is brutal." Her voice was torn between admiration and envy. "I bet she could take McGonagall."

"No way. McGonagall's, like, a million years old. She teaches this stuff. But maybe Williamson."

"Arrrgh! Yes, fine, but that's my point. How is she so strong? It's not fair. Let's suppose, and I'm not saying you're right, that'll be a cold day in hell, but what if Mr. Weasley had noticed me?" Her voice dropped. "He's powerful, Arun. You think he's a joke, that I'm crazy, but you didn't see how fast he moved. You didn't see how he looked when he thought no one was looking.

"I was lucky…"

Arun silently threw his arms up.

"Fine, I said it, now shut up, I was lucky to be out of sight. I was nervous. But Sally-Anne wouldn't have been."

"She's older."

"Less than a year! I was top of my class. She didn't even go to Hogwarts, apparently. And you were right, she does make us practice more than I expected, which is great. But still. How?"

"We practice now, but I don't see anyone else at the Ministry trying to get better." He shrugged. "They think it's not their job, probably, just call the Aurors."

"Lazy gits. That's weird, though. I haven't noticed anyone practicing, either. And at school, between lessons and homework and Quidditch and boys" — Arun rolled his eyes — "oh, don't even start; what about what's-her-name, that Gryffindork. There wasn't time to practice. Not really."

"So maybe that's what she was doing instead of going to Hogwarts."

"Maybe. But what about the restrictions on underage sorcery? We only got a pass because we were at school, supervised and what not. I don't think she was at any school. Not Beauxbatons, not Salem, not..."

"Wait," Arun interrupted, "wasn't her mother in the Ministry? Maybe she got special permission or something."

"And no one else outside Hogwarts or the Ministry can practice because of Wand Screening!" Zhu got excited and then very serious. "Arun, do you know what this means?"

"That you're about to take obnoxious overachiever where no one has gone before?" Arun groaned.

"Dork. No. That somehow Sally-Anne has had the opportunity to get more powerful than any other living wizard, except maybe for a handful of Aurors and professors."

"Wow. Wait. Waitwaitwait. We were talking about something like this, before the whole Mark Regan thing happened. That kinda distracted me. What did she say?" Arun scowled at the ground in concentration. "Something about how the Ministry used its power to prevent anyone else from gaining power. She implied that was a bad thing."

"That doesn't make sense. Somehow, she avoids Hogwarts and gets home schooled or something by her mother. Then she joins the Ministry herself, the only place a wizard can really train without it being suspicious. She's worked to get powerful her whole life! But she doesn't like how the Ministry operates?"

"Don't pretend you're not the same."

Zhu straightened her back at that. "What do you mean?"

Arun sighed and walked over to her. He brushed an imaginary something off her shoulder. Zhu raised her chin even higher. He didn't know if she was going to punch him or start crying. She did neither. Instead, she seemed to just look over his shoulder at the row of semi-detached homes. He didn't have to turn to see them; routine had pounded every house in Heston into his memory.

"Do you know why I joined Improper Use of Magic? I had better offers." She still wasn't looking at him.

Arun bit back some snarky retort and just shook his head.

"Everyone else I interviewed with brought up my parents. What had happened to them. What Voldemort did to them. They all — they all made it about themselves. How sorry they were. How grief-stricken they were sure I was. Told me their sad stories and assumed they knew all about mine. But not Sally-Anne. I suppose she knew, but she never brought it up. Just asked me about me, you know. Not about them. Or even what I'd done. Just who I was."

She swallowed and Arun belatedly noticed her flop of a shield spell had gone out completely. He moved to share the umbrella.

"At the end of our talk, just before I left the room, I brought it up myself." Zhu laughed abruptly. "Never thought that would happen. I told her the short version. And you know what she said? She just looked me in the eye and said 'that sucks'. That's it."

Arun looked up at the umbrella. He wondered what his mates back in Hufflepuff would make of this.

"Zhu, can you do me a favor?"

She'd started walking again, her arms crossed over her body. The spell shield flickered back to life and Arun scrambled to keep up.

"I doubt it. What?"

"Sally-Anne takes risks, but when she acts she has the power to back it up. We don't. Not yet. But you're right. We should. And we work at the Ministry, too.

"What I'm saying is, do you want to practice with me? We can figure out a way to get around Wand Screening. Bribe them or something."

Zhu looked at him in disbelief for a moment then slowly a huge grin spread across her face and, whirling, she gave him a fierce hug. Then she pulled back, serious again, and held him by the shoulders.

"All right, Mr. I-Keep-My-Head-Down; tigers don't change their spots, nay, nor leopards their stripes. Why are you doing this?"

They were in his neighborhood by now; he could just see his parents' house. How hard had he worked to get away from there? He could remember how it felt, getting his offer owl from the Ministry.

"Because everyone thinks they're the good guy," Arun said. "Even if they're not. And this whole mess has me wondering who I can trust. After Voldemort died, I assumed…" He looked grim for a moment.

"Maybe I don't have time to do things the normal way. But I trust us. Don't you?"

"Well, I don't know, Mr. Patel." Zhu tried to both laugh and frown, her eyes bright for the first time since Arun could remember. "If we're supposed to be the good guys watching everyone else, then if we're not the good guys, who's going to check up on us?"

Arun smiled back. "Also us! Stay for dinner? My mom keeps asking about you."

"Of course, silly. I love your mom. Besides, I haven't seen Knabby — that's my house elf, btw — since Sally-Anne talked to him." She laughed and took his arm. "And I'm not learning how to cook now that we have real skills to practice."


	7. Interrogations

_May 15th, 1998_

"This can't be right," said Sam. He wrinkled his nose skeptically.

Sally-Anne silently agreed. She could smell the salt of the Irish Sea, but the narrow street they were standing in stank of poverty and suspicion. The rowhouses were narrow and almost every window was blocked by a shade or curtain; there was little to no foot traffic.

"This is the address I found at the Ministry. Let's knock; maybe she left a forwarding address," she said doubtfully.

"Yeah, 26 Elsewhere Lane, Anywhere-But-Blackpool, England," grumbled Sam.

"Hey, you volunteered. I told you this wouldn't be pleasant."

"You said it wouldn't be a pleasant conversation. Not that we'd be slumming without caffeine. Besides," he reminded her, "you promised evidence that your crazy theories aren't."

She hitched her backpack higher up; the item she'd filched from the Ministry earlier that morning was heavier than she'd expected.

"Adventure! Mystery! Possibly tea! Trust me, Sam." She walked up to the door of the most sullen looking house on the block and resolutely knocked on the door.

After a long wait that had Sam starting to stamp and grumble incoherently under his breath, they heard a sharp bark from inside.

"No soliciting!"

"Morning, Ms. Carrow!" Sally-Anne put on her fakest cheerful sing-song voice. "We're here from the DMLE. You remember us, don't you. Just have a couple questions, but I'm sure my colleague here would be happy to do it at the Ministry under Veritaserum if necessary!"

She glanced back at Sam and puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes in an attempt to convey relaxed confidence. Her puffy coat, backpack, and glasses must have ruined the effect, since Sam snorted.

Fine, she thought, I look like a nerdy Girl Guide. Whatever. It's disarming.

The sound of multiple locks clicking focused her attention. The door slowly swung open. A short, stout woman stood there, leaning on a Rollator and glaring at Sally-Anne like she would gladly twist her head off.

"Thank you so much, Ms. Carrow. Can I call you Alecto? No? What, uh, a lovely home you have here, Ms. Carrow. Lots of, uh, privacy. Your brother doesn't live here anymore, does he."

By now, Sally-Anne was already in the living-room. It reeked of stale cigarette smoke. The carpeting was thick and wrinkled; she wondered how the woman managed to push the walker around.

"You know he doesn't," said Alecto bitterly. "If you're really from the Ministry. Both of you, show me some proof."

"Mafalda doesn't know we're here, correct?" Sam casually pulled his wand out from its wrist holder. He turned to Sally-Anne. "And you're in tight with Alice at Wand Screening. So I suppose a little Cruciatus would be ample proof of our bona fides, don't you think?"

"That won't be necessary. Will it, Ms. Carrow? That's right." Sally-Anne groaned and put her backpack down heavily onto the carpet. "There. May I sit, please? Thank you so much."

Alecto slowly pushed her way to the facing couch and sat down as well, keeping a tight grip on the walker. She looked like some crabby next-door widow upset about a ball through her window. Sam remained standing next to the door, to Sally-Anne's right.

"You young people are so disrespectful. Comes from poor parenting. And lack of discipline."

"I heard you were quite the one for discipline at Hogwarts," said Sam calmly.

"Don't take that tone with me." Alecto's mouth pulled out and down as though she wanted to physically recoil from her guests. "You weren't there. It's all lies. Muggle-lover propaganda. Discipline needs to be harsh. I never punished anyone who hadn't broken the law. They deserved whatever they got, had it coming to them, they did."

"What did they deserve, Ms. Carrow?" asked Sally-Anne gently.

"A good deal more than they got! Little snivelers. Creating chaos." Alecto tried to lift her walker up to thump it back down and underscore her point, but she was too weak and it only moved forward about an inch, squeaking in protest.

"Order must be maintained! Do you know what the accident rate — of children! — was before I took charge. You don't know what it was like. How many times does a cat jump onto a hot stove? I did what was necessary! What were you doing then, Mr. High-and-Mighty? Crawling to Yaxley, I expect. Hrrmmph!" She lifted her chin and gazed on them in triumph. She clearly viewed both her logic and her rightness as unassailable.

"How is your brother doing these days, Ms. Carrow? And the others?"

"Them!" Alecto snorted. "In their mansions and manors! Paying me no regard. Not that I want it. Dirty riffraff. Lucky not to be in Azkaban, murderers." She made a spitting sound. "You lot are too soft. Not like me. I never killed no one. But they still took my wand away," she finished spitefully.

It was disorienting to talk to Alecto. There was no thread to follow, just hate bubbling out at the various groups that she believed had wronged her.

"We keep them under watch. Sometimes they give us information, Ms. Carrow. Proudfoot mentioned something to me only the other day — "

"Proudfoot!" Alecto laughed, mockingly. "Oh dear, and here I was, hoping Kingsley was honest with his servants. But I suppose it takes time for information to trickle down so far. No, I may not have my wand anymore, but I still have my sources. Friends, unlike some I could mention. No, my plain Jane, Proudfoot is dead."

"I don't believe you," said Sam hotly.

"It's true!" Alecto was almost gleeful. "Now, why wouldn't you know that? Let. Me. Think." She put a stubby, swollen finger to her cheek and looked at the ceiling as though puzzling out a problem. "Useful idiots, you are." She did spit then, loudly, and then coughed a true smoker's cough. She fumbled in the basket of the walker and pulled out a packet of Pall Malls and a Bic from under a dingy grey blanket.

"You mean..." Sally-Anne shook her head. "It's not possible."

"Right. Because you're so clever. You'd know if someone high up was pulling your strings." Alecto's shrill voice was now scornful. "Selling us out to the Muggles. Forcing us to breed with those animals. Do your job! At least someone is. Someone remembers what it means to be a pure blood. Someone to stand against that filth, that scum, that dirty, wretched…"

Alecto was screeching now, flailing the lit cigarette about, and her neighbor started to pound on the thin wall. She stopped mid-rant abruptly, and Sally-Anne wondered if she'd had trouble with the police. Probably, given that she was surrounded by Muggles, people she despised. For a moment, Sally-Anne felt sympathy for how the old woman's hatred accomplished only her own isolation and alienation.

"Who? Who is this defender of purebloods?" Sam leaned forward.

But Alecto, checked in her diatribe, didn't answer. She seemed to have shrunk, all the rage having poured out of her. What was left was simple malice. Her eyes were small and sharp, like a wren's.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You just said someone was standing up to the Ministry. Who?" Sam was getting aggravated, but Sally-Anne couldn't think of a way to warn him off.

"Me?" Alecto said it as though sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth. "You must have imagined it. It's not my fault you don't pay attention."

"Look, I don't want to argue, but — ". Sam's voice was rising.

"I won't talk to you unless you calm down, young man. After all, it takes two to argue." Alecto crossed her arms primly and took another drag from her cigarette, slowly and deliberately.

The witch was goading him, Sally-Anne realized. Trying to cover up a mistake. She broke in.

"That's true, but it only takes one to start an argument out of thin air and then try to gaslight and bully you into seeing things their way."

That had come out a bit stronger than she'd intended, but it had felt really good, like something she needed to say. She looked up at Sam. He was staring at her as though seeing her for the first time. Was it possible that he understood what she meant? That he had a similar presence in his life, undermining and corrosive?

"You don't know what you're talking about. That never happened. I don't deserve this, being blamed for toughening up the children! I can't help it if you're all babies."

Sally-Anne sighed. The Death Eater was back on her tangents. But it didn't matter. Leaning over, she started to unzip the backpack. She pulled out a large metal bowl, the sort used to mix pancake batter, only its inside was covered with runes and sigils.

Sam waited outside. When it was over, Sally-Anne quietly closed the door behind her.

* * *

"Percy! Come in, come in." Kingsley half-rose from his chair behind the massive, cluttered desk and gestured to a chair that was stacked dangerously high with more documents and scrolls.

"Thank you, sir. Just stopping by as you requested to fill you in on our progress." Percy gingerly tried to shift the pile of papers, but at his touch it collapsed and he ended up on his knees having to pick them up individually and put them wherever.

"And what has Arthur discovered?" Kingsley looked down at Percy cheerfully, but his voice betrayed his tension.

"The investigation is ongoing, but the early signs are of Death Eater involvement," replied Percy, scrambling to his feet.

The conversation, Percy admitted to himself, was quite awkward. If Ollivander delivered on Saturday, as planned, he would be killing this man less than a day later. He wondered what Kingsley would look like as the Avada Kedavra struck him. Probably quite like he did right at this moment, actually.

The Minister slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Just what I feared. But they didn't use wands! That means no outside help, doesn't it?"

"None as yet has been discovered, but we believe free Death Eaters, including Rookwood, of whom we still have no intelligence, are watching the situation carefully. My father believes, as a result, that we must pretend to be ignorant for a few more days until we can track them down."

Kingsley leaned forward at that and Percy groaned inwardly. He'd have to distract the Minister from asking too many questions. That should be easy, enough; the Minister was notorious for his short attention span. Lots of plans, but no follow through. The man was losing control, not just of the Ministry, but of the wizarding world in general, and he was the last to realize it. It was past time for a change.

"When does Arthur think he'll have actionable intelligence?"

"Uh, sometime next week. We just hired a new employee and Perkins thinks they'll make a big difference, given how thin we are on the ground. Have you hired an assistant yet to help with...?" Percy indicated the general chaos. Couldn't Kingsley see he was in over his head? Why didn't the Minister just resign, rather than force them to use force? Did he care so little about the preservation of Magical Britain? It was these amiable, well-meaning types that caused all the problems.

"Oh, excellent. Most of us will be here through the weekend, of course, digging out from all the paperwork." Kingsley sighed. "Just like last weekend. But no, I haven't had a chance to interview enough candidates. It's important I get the best person for the job. Am I right?"

"Absolutely, sir." Sure, why not, Percy thought. Delay a critical hire and waste more time searching for perfection when anyone who could take dictation would be valuable.

"But it is hard to get much done without someone. Our international allies are starting to get impatient. Want to make sure we're taking our duties under the Statute of Secrecy seriously. Try saying that five times fast." Kingsley laughed awkwardly at his own joke.

"But they're getting anxious," Kingsley continued. "And that doesn't even compare to the domestic docket. Issues around estates of the heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts, dealing with continuity of house elf ownership, liasioning with the goblins, Wizengamot procedures, ceremonial responsibilities, hiring and reviews…" At each issue he pointed to a stack of papers or lifted one up, his voice getting tighter as he progressed. "Not to mention the uproar if we end up having to cancel the Quidditch season. The departments are doing the best they can, but we're just so understaffed."

"I understand, sir. I've worked with Ministers in the past, and they were run ragged at the best of times." Good note to end on, sympathetic, distracting, be killing you in less than forty-eight hours. Percy wondered where Audrey was and started to get up.

"That's right, I had forgotten. No, please, sit." Kingsley got up himself, however, and started to walk around the office as best he could given the clutter. "Don't tell me; my memory's not quite what it was, but… ah, yes! You started under old Barty, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir." Percy twisted his head to look at Kingsley, who was examining an old print. Strange, how there were no portraits in the office now. That might be helpful, when the time came.

"Pity how that ended. Murdered by his own son, of course. Then you worked for the Minister himself, didn't you? Cornelius." Kingsley laughed. "I rather admired him, you know, but his reputation did take a bit of a nosedive after his propaganda campaign against Dumbledore was revealed. Left the country in disgrace, didn't he?"

"Yes, sir." Percy was starting to feel uneasy and his neck was developing a kink. Where was Kingsley going with all this?

"No one blamed you of course. Exemplary service, and all that. That little article about Ms. Umbridge, though, …" Kingsley shook his head. "Well, I suppose you were following instructions, am I right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then you worked for Rufus. Bad luck, there, I'm afraid. But, tell me, Percy, how was it you managed to serve Pius after the murder of Rufus? After the Ministry took on, shall we say, a different tone." Kingsley was now directly behind Percy. He'd stopped trying to look at the Minister and instead was listening carefully. Why the humiliating listing of his failures? Was this some elaborate setup? His middle finger twitched, but he kept his wand holstered.

"Sir, Minister Thicknesse was under the Imperius. Although some of the changes were, uh, reactionary in nature, I did not realize he was under Yaxley's control." At that moment, Percy despised both the Minister and his past self with equal vehemence. From the point of view of the present, it was so easy to know what he'd done wrong, but difficult to remember why he'd done it at the time. Why _had_ he gone along, Percy wondered. Had he been so blinded by his position? Had he not bothered, as a pure blood, to notice?

"I suppose by then you were used to obeying authority. You simply did what you were told. Isn't that right?" asked Kingsley.

Percy still couldn't see the Minister, but he realized the prick had him dead to rights. He could admit that to himself, just as he could admit that any worries of being unable to summon enough hatred to use the Avada Kedavra on Kingsley were now laughable. If this wasn't a setup. But if so, why drag it out? Why torment him?

"Yes, sir. I mean, I think so, sir. It was a... confusing time."

"That seems to be the pattern of your career. Blind loyalty, Percy. A valuable trait. But we might wish you had better masters." Kingsley reappeared to Percy's left and made his way back to his chair. He looked serious, but not angry. He wasn't holding his wand.

"Yes, sir. I think I have one now, sir." Let the fool take it as a compliment. But of course Percy meant his father. Those years of petty rebellion, wasted. But ever since the Battle of Hogwarts, he knew his North Star. His father had been right to cut off his worries about the Death Eaters. When his father spoke, Percy believed. That certainty was calming. He was on the right path, finally, and the man sitting before him was just a pebble to be kicked off into the grass. He realized with a sudden clarity that he was now actually looking forward to murdering the man.

"I wonder. Rookwood. Macnair. Crisis after crisis. And now all these changes. Although, between us, Percy, the Wizengamot was more easily persuaded than I would have guessed. Power that no Minister has had in centuries. You've seen corrupt men in my position, Percy. Is so much power healthy?"

"Power is just a tool. What matters is the man who wields it." His father's sentiments.

"Perhaps. We have better precautions in place, now, of course." Kingsley looked up at the Thief's Downfall. "But Cornelius was not Imperiused. Rufus believed he was doing the right thing, hiding the truth and preventing panic. What if I'm doing the wrong things now? What if my successor tries to take us in a different direction? Now that it has been given, this power will be difficult to take away."

"I believe in you, sir," lied Percy.

But Kingsley's self-doubt had sent a ripple of uncertainty down Percy's spine. Again, he couldn't deny the truth of what the Minister had said: Percy _had_ been too loyal to each in a string of tainted bosses, he had followed orders without fully considering their implications. Was it possible that his father was another of them, a man making mistakes despite his good intentions, a man doing the wrong things for the right reason?

No! Percy rejected the hypothesis with such vehemence he almost physically shook his head. No. His father was doing what had to be done. His father was trying to save everyone. His father was right, had to be right. Without that foundation, Percy would have nothing. He felt a bewildering moment of vertigo.

Percy hated Kingsley for making him doubt Arthur, even for a moment. He wanted to kill the Minister immediately, right now, to prove to himself that he trusted Arthur completely, that he was on Arthur's side. He promised himself never to question Arthur again.

"Let's hope your faith is not misplaced this time." Kingsley gave Percy a self-deprecating grin. "Anyway, I've kept you long enough. And I suppose I really should try to get through some of these letters today."

"Thank you, sir." Percy hesitated. "But sir…" He had no idea what he was about to say.

Kingsley looked up again. "Yes, Percy?"

"Nothing." Percy fled.

* * *

They were barely back in the office before Zhu burst in.

"Sally-Anne, finally! You won't believe who I saw… at Arun's last night. Um, his kid sister's back in town from boarding school," finished Zhu lamely.

A sudden look from Sam, and a flicker of his eyes over her shoulder, had prompted her to take that sentence to quite a different place than she'd intended. But now Zhu could smell the heliotrope notes in the perfume behind her and winced.

"Fascinating, my dear," said Mafalda Hopkirk brightly. "However, if you could waste Ms. Perks' time outside, I would be most grateful.

"You see," Mafalda continued, clasping her hands together and speaking insultingly slowly, "I need a word with Sam here. On. Actual. Ministry. Business. Thank you so much. Yes. Thank you," Mafalda chirped insincerely. She closed the door firmly.

Sally-Anne scrambled to get clear in time, realized she'd forgotten her coat, and tried to open the door back into her office to grab it.

The door wouldn't open. Sally-Anne tried again, frowned, and then carefully put an ear to the door. Her eyebrows shot up.

"Well, well, Ms. Hopkirk," muttered Sally-Anne to herself. "Moving up in the world are we? Welcome to the adult table."

"What's she saying?" asked Zhu curiously. A Mafalda sighting was a rare occurrence.

"Absolutely no idea. She's put an Imperturbable Charm on the door," Sally-Anne said matter-of-factly.

"Good thing we've got a man on the inside, then."

"Quite. Arun, if she asks, I'm buying Zhu a cup of tea to calm her nerves from the shocking news of the return of Priya."

Once they were outside the Ministry, Sally-Anne took Zhu's wrist.

Zhu looked at her boss with surprise and found herself standing at the side of a deserted roundabout. Just to her left, a small white sign at just the right height for rabbits to read proclaimed they were now on Aliwal Road. Wherever that was.

"Oh," Zhu sighed. "Is this a walk and talk?"

"Something like that." Sally-Anne smiled cheerfully. "Better than discussing anything back there, for sure. Although it was a foolish spell for her to use."

Sally-Anne started walking briskly along the road, rubbing her arms. Zhu followed, wondering how far north they'd come.

"Cambridgeshire," said Sally-Anne, answering the unspoken question. "Let's leave it at that, for now. Anyway, I apologize for Mafalda's interruption. You were saying?"

Zhu quickly filled her boss in on what she'd seen in Diagon Alley. Sally-Anne frowned in concentration.

"Curious behavior, certainly." Sally-Anne pushed her glasses back up her nose. "Let me ask you a question, Zhu. You're clear on what we're doing, correct?"

"Figuring out who kidnapped Macnair. Because it's likely they're trying to take over the Ministry, perhaps even all of magical Britain," replied Zhu promptly.

"Correct answers ask for harder questions. What will we do once we find them?"

Zhu didn't blink. "Kill them."

Sally-Anne glanced at the girl out of the corner of her eye for a moment. "Explain to me how that's evident."

"Azkaban no longer exists. Given the odds of a traitor in the Ministry plus what we know about Rookwood, prison of any sort at this stage would be useless." Zhu shrugged. "I suppose we could try to Obliviate them permanently, but isn't that the same as murder? No, given the crimes they must be committing, the danger they pose, and the power they already possess, the only sensible solution is to simply eliminate them. Better than having to do it all over again this time next week."

"Yet every Muggle religion and Muggle society places murder at the top of Thou Shalt Not," Sally-Anne reminded her.

"Muggles." Zhu shrugged again.

"And our own society places the Killing Curse as the first of the Unforgivables."

"Oh, like Avada Kedavra is the only curse that kills!" retorted Zhu. "Tell that to Mark Regan. Come on, Sally-Anne, don't tell me you don't think there are people who deserve death."

"But Avada Kedavra is the only curse that only kills," explained Sally-Anne patiently. "It's the intent to kill that makes it unforgivable. Tell me, Zhu, how many have you killed?"

Zhu's jaw clenched in anger. "What it does matter? Can only killers decide who is worthy of death?"

"No, but only killers know the cost of having killed. Some, like Voldemort, it drives insane. The rest of us have to remind ourselves that we're not."

Zhu shook her head. "Are you telling me killing a rapist keeps you up at night?"

Sally-Anne was silent for a moment and seemed to focus on the pavement. The country they were walking through was very flat and still. And they were walking away from the only cluster of buildings Zhu could see.

"Do you know what Chesterton's Fence is?" asked Sally-Anne suddenly.

"No," Zhu replied defiantly. Sally-Anne hadn't answered her question. Did her boss think she wouldn't notice?

"It basically states that if you want to change a rule or custom that's been in place for a long time, do so only after you fully understand why it's there to begin with. Just because its purpose isn't obvious doesn't mean there isn't a good one."

"And that applies how?" asked Zhu. She was starting to fume. What was the point of all this? And why was Sally-Anne making her have this discussion in the middle of frozen nowhere? Then Zhu remembered that Sally-Anne didn't have her jacket and felt momentarily guilty for her own peacoat. Not that it would have fit Sally-Anne, anyway.

"Just that we need to be careful to think through the second order effects of our actions. What if murder solves this problem, but everyone starts thinking Avada Kedavra is acceptable to use as long as your reason is really, really good?"

"Kill them in secret," said Zhu. "Or make it look like an accident."

"So establish a precedent that legitimizes not only political murder, but also clandestine political murder?"

Zhu was silent.

"Difficult questions don't have easy answers," said Sally-Anne. "I agree with you that a memory charm is murder. Although perhaps not many others would agree with us. I was always surprised that Obliviate wasn't an Unforgivable curse, but I suppose people consider it a local anesthetic. And our other alternatives are, as you say, not promising. Azkaban was worse than murder. I don't have the capacity to be sorry it's no longer available. A conventional prison might work on a full sweep, but in a case of conspiracy, if we miss someone…"

"So you agree we have to kill them," said Zhu sharply.

"Not so fast. Suppose for a moment we found all this was being done by Mafalda. She's no extremist. Would we have no other options, once we learned her motivation? Could we dissuade her? Seduce her, perhaps, with status or money."

"If it's Mafalda, you don't know Mafalda," Zhu pointed out. "You're picturing a person who doesn't exist. A relationship between her and the world that doesn't exist."

"And you can't fix what doesn't exist. It took me a long time to accept that." Sally-Anne was speaking slowly, as though she were actually thinking it through.

I'm confused, Zhu realized. I thought she brought me out here to try to convince me of something. But she's not. What is she doing?

"What if we only manage to scotch the snake?" continued Sally-Anne. "I mean, assume there are three conspirators and we eliminate two of them. The third would know who we are and could come after us." Sally-Anne pushed up her glasses. "Or those we love."

"So we need to be sure we know who's guilty and then hit them simultaneously." Several shabby warehouse-looking buildings were coming into sight, Zhu noticed, a couple hundred meters down the road. Is that where they were heading?

"Easier said than done. And complex plans have a way of failing in unpredictable ways."

"That's true," Zhu admitted.

We're only going to have one chance to get this right." Sally-Anne's hands went into her pants' pocket. "Well, _we_ are, at least. And I prefer to make my mistakes in alternate universes."

"Har har." Zhu rolled her eyes. "So nothing fancy. Keep it simple. And we'll find a scapegoat to punish so people understand the consequences of murder and your chestnut fence stays in place."

"Chesterton's," said Sally-Anne, absent-mindedly.

We should have the element of surprise as well," continued Zhu. That much, she thought to herself, was obvious. After all, why did Sally-Anne think Zhu dressed like this? Zhu knew perfectly well what people saw when they looked at her, and what they thought of what they saw. The girls were even quicker to stereotype her than the boys. It no longer bothered her; their predictability was her advantage. That was the benefit to looking superficial and egotistical; no one saw you coming.

"We certainly have that. I'm just a mousy girl who lives with her parents," said Sally-Anne, smiling.

Zhu looked over at Sally-Anne again, wondering. Was Sally-Anne being snarky? Was it possible that her boss was using a similar approach, just from the other side? Zhu tried to see her objectively, tried to overcome the instinctual blind spot that beauty has for plainness. The terrible outfits. The posture. The glasses. Sally-Anne certainly was meek around others, although not her team. Could it be deliberate? Had she, who was so contemptuous of others' underestimation of her, underestimated Sally-Anne?

Sally-Anne had stopped in the road and was looking at Zhu curiously.

"Zhu," said Sally-Anne slowly, "if I had to guess, I would say your parents were pretty strict. In that respect, at least, we're similar. But what I lost in freedom I invested in self control. Because discipline has a reservoir.

"Do you read fiction? Pity. You can learn a lot from what it gets wrong. Fiction tends to be neat, NPCs and tropes playing out the narrative fallacy. The bosses, the Big Bads, get tougher as the story goes on, more challenging. Often the final villain, or the penultimate, is the dark side of the protagonist. The worst of what you might become, personified. But, Zhu, that's not how it works in the real world. You're the first villain that you must overcome." Sally-Anne's voice was very quiet. Zhu had to step closer to hear.

"Most people fall at the first hurdle. Are you one of them?"

"No," said Zhu firmly.

Sally-Anne smiled again. It was a warm smile, and it made Zhu feel warm.

"I believe you." Sally-Anne looked up. "Now, let's go shopping."

Zhu turned around. They were standing in front of a single story brick building. There were no visible windows. Her heart rate accelerated as she read the sign over the door.


	8. Confrontations

_May 16th, 1998. 6:35 A.M._

The small, semi-detached house in an unfashionable neighborhood of London had bricks for a front lawn, but they were clean and well-swept.

Sally-Anne walked up to the front door and double-checked the address. She rapped on the doorjamb and the thin wood rattled. No response. She knocked again and then waited several minutes, shivering. Finally, wincing, she rang the doorbell. Bouncing on her toes to get her blood flowing, Sally-Anne felt like an outsider here, an interloper.

Then the inner door suddenly and silently swung into the house and a short woman appeared; she pushed open the glass outer door. Sally-Anne barely avoided being knocked over.

"You must be Mrs. Patel, Arun's mother," said Sally-Anne awkwardly.

The older woman beckoned her into the house, then hurried to close and lock both doors. A blanket of warmth enveloped Sally-Anne and she flexed her fingers gratefully.

"You're the last," said Mrs. Patel, without ceremony. "The others are already in the kitchen." Down a narrow and very short hallway, past a tiny half bathroom, Sally-Anne could see light and hear Zhu talking.

The kitchen was also tiny. An old refrigerator took up most of one side of the room. There was a bowl of what looked like matzoh balls on the linoleum countertop next to the range. Arun's mother, having followed Sally-Anne, began rolling one out with a little flour.

Hungry as she was, Sally-Anne couldn't pay much attention: Sam, Arun, and Zhu were sitting at an old card table that was tucked into the other half of the room, drinking cups of tea. They looked up and waved as she walked in, but didn't stand; doing so would have required an elaborate set of moves capable of winning 15-puzzle.

"Fashionably late, boss," Zhu said with a smile.

"Have a seat, please." Arun gestured towards the remaining empty chair. "Oh, mom, is there another glass? And a teabag. Thanks."

"Arun saved you the good seat. Lucky you, getting to drink all the tea you want without having to worry about getting to the bathroom," said Sam.

Sally-Anne gladly sat down and waited for Arun's mother to pour her a cuppa from the steaming kettle. She touched it briefly. Hot. She contented herself with stirring the tea a couple times with a spoon and blowing futilely over the rim while waiting for someone else to start the conversation. She felt cramped; if she reached out she could have touched the stovetop.

"We need to be quiet. The rest of my family is still sleeping." Arun pointed at the ceiling.

"I was just telling them about what happened outside Ollivander's yesterday," Zhu said.

"Zhu has done a complete one-eighty," commented Sam dryly, "and is now trying to convince us that Arthur Weasley's our man."

A sizzling came from the hob. Zhu somehow squeezed out of her seat, leapt up and opened a cupboard. She pulled out a pile of plates.

"Here, Mrs. Patel, let me help you," said Zhu.

"Thank you, Zhu. You are a good girl." Arun's mother looked up at her and smiled.

"I'm not set in stone!" Zhu said, placing one of the plates next to the range and turning around to look at Sam. "Besides, you were the one who thought he was guilty in the first place."

"Hardly. I merely indicated that he had a certain profile that made him worth considering."

"Let's slow down, people. No running by the pool. We have to get this one right." Sally-Anne took a cautious sip of her tea. Perfect. She took several large swallows and felt the reinvigorating warmth spread through her body. "Arun, what's the word from St. Mungo's?"

"Hold on a second, Sally-Anne." Sam raised his hand to preempt Arun. "I think you should tell them about Ms. Carrow, first."

"There's not much to tell." There was movement by her elbow and she turned to accept a plate from Zhu. Some sort of pancake sat on the warm ceramic. She passed the plate over to Arun over his objections. "She confirmed there's a player moving against the Ministry. Someone with no love for Muggles."

"No," said Sam. "I told them what she said. And I didn't layer on an interpretation. I mean, what happened after I stepped outside." His face was impassive.

The sound of the next whatever-it-was frying was suddenly quite loud. Sally-Anne looked around at the three of them. She wondered if they would this consider a bridge too far.

Good, Sally-Anne thought defiantly. If they can't stomach this, I need to know now. Better they get off the train before real decisions have to be made. But I thought better of them. Especially Zhu, after yesterday.

"I extracted Ms. Carrow's memory of our visit and placed it into a Ministry Pensieve," she said, looking at each of them in turn.

"Without Obliviator authorization. But yesterday you said memory charms were the same as murder." Zhu spoke slowly as she passed Sally-Anne another hot plate. Sally-Anne pushed this one at Sam, with a hard look. He took the plate but he didn't start eating.

"There may no other way with whomever it is we're chasing," continued Zhu, without looking at Sally-Anne, "but Ms. Carrow, I mean, she did terrible things at Hogwarts but she never killed anyone. She was unconscious for the really bad stuff. They didn't even imprison her."

"I did it for her! To protect her," retorted Sally-Anne. She took an exasperated breath, got up, refilled her cup with hot water, then silently took another steaming plate from Zhu. She sat down and deliberately cut off a large piece of what Mrs. Patel was cooking. It was warm and delicious, heavier and sweeter than a regular pancake.

"I understand it's easier to work together on the day-to-day," said Sally-Anne calmly, once she could speak again. But we're not in Kansas anymore. Understand this. People have going to die and, if we're lucky, we are going to kill them. If we're unlucky, we will likely be killed. And then someone that excites the Death Eaters will take over the Ministry and have access to all its strength and a freedom to act no Minister in living memory has had. If that's the future you want, tell me now."

She took another bite. Zhu sat down with the final plate. She looked at Sally-Anne, not eating, waiting.

"Ask yourselves why I didn't Obliviate her," Sally-Anne continued. "Why go to all the trouble, and it was trouble, for the record, to smuggle out a Pensieve? I thought I'd taught you better. Arun. What is the difference between a Pensieved memory and an Obliviated one?"

"A memory can be retrieved from a Pensieve. Which means... you wanted to show it to us?" asked Arun hesitantly. He poked at his untouched plate.

"So an Obliviated memory can never be retrieved?" Sally-Anne asked. She saw Sam raise his eyebrows. His head snapped back and he started eating. Well, she thought caustically, at least someone understands.

"Torture," Zhu said quietly. "Obliviation can be broken by torturing the subject."

"That is correct. We know Alecto is in touch with other Death Eaters. And, somehow, they are in touch with Macnair's kidnappers. And probably his murderers by now. Five minutes after Sam and I left, they could have kicked in her door, demanding to know what she'd said."

"And if the memory was there, even Obliviated..." Arun trailed off, but he looked at Sally-Anne with respect and perhaps a little apprehension. "So you removed it entirely."

"Chicken dinner." Sally-Anne looked back over at Sam as though to say, "Enough?"

"I figured they had the right to know," shrugged Sam. "And I"m glad you had a good reason." He laughed. "At least I got tea on this field trip. And our host today is far nicer." He looked up at Arun's mother and winked, grinning. She chuckled and came over to put another paratha on his plate.

"It's not enough to have good intentions!" Sally-Anne took another deep breath and sipped her tea; the warm liquid calmed her. "Everyone thinks they have a good reason for what they do. But horrible things still get done. Maybe it's good intentions that are the problem; that certainty justifies anything."

Only after she said it did Sally-Anne realize that it was true. She pictured Ms. Carrow beating students, using the Cruciatus to teach a necessary lesson. She pictured the Death Eaters rampaging behind their masks, certain that Muggles were animals.

"And it's not enough of a justification, either, to say that things worked out well this time." Sally-Anne mouthed out the words distastefully. "We try to think ahead. We plan. We prepare. But don't fool yourself. We don't control the world. Which means It's not consequences that matter, either."

"What does matter, then?" Zhu asked.

"I'm not, I'm not entirely sure," Sally-Anne admitted. She finished her tea and reached over for the kettle again. Sometimes, it worked better to think out loud.

"I didn't protect Alecto because my motives were pure," said Sally-Anne thoughtfully. "The woman enjoys hurting children and some part of me wanted to see her suffer. And I didn't protect her just because I was worried about her being forced to reveal what she'd told us. I protected her because you don't torture people. You don't deliver them into the hands of torturers. You don't do it because the world wouldn't work if everyone did it. You don't do it because you wouldn't want it done to you."

She thought of Jadis, Queen of Charn, and what a world would be like where everyone thought the rules didn't apply to them.

"I'm not above such laws," she said. "No one is. Period."

She thought of her mother, lying to Sally-Anne in order to control her, and thereby destroying their relationship beyond repair.

"Someone who thinks good intentions or consequences are all that matters will lie. How can they ever be trusted?" asked Sally-Anne.

She saw again the two boxes of Omega and how easily cooperation, even with strangers, was possible as long as people trusted each other to follow universal rules, to not be bad actors.

"If I can't consistently obey a moral obligation as simple as "don't torture", then how could I ever trust myself? And if I can't even trust myself, how could I ever expect anyone else to trust me?"

In the silence that followed, Sally-Anne imagined a world where everyone blithely dismissed traditions that had survived for thousands of generations. Where people did whatever they felt like, justifying carelessness with good intentions and excusing bad outcomes by blaming reality rather than their own recklessness. Where people's egos were too big to bother to learn empathy, and no one trusted each other because opinions mattered more than truth.

Sally-Anne pictured the result and everyone in the room froze. The world itself stood still, turned sepia, and, like old newspaper that is placed near but not in the fire, was consumed by blackness, curled into nothingness. Sally-Anne looked down at her hands. They were charred. She could see the table through them in spots and the spots had glowing edges that grew steadily larger.

Sally-Anne blinked and the vision was gone. For a moment, she watched the steam that was still slowly rising from her tea. Then she stood up and looked at Zhu.

"It's like what I said yesterday. If every culture has the same rule, if there are no footnotes to that rule, no 'unless you really want to' exception, no 'except for the greater good' special case, then maybe you shouldn't unthinkingly destroy that rule, then brush off your hands at a job well done.

"And I know what you're going to say. If that's true, then why are we here, deciding whom we're going to kill?" asked Sally-Anne. She felt Sam's eyes on her.

"We're going to kill because protecting the world from bad actors is a universal duty. We're going to fulfill that moral obligation, no matter the risk. No matter the penalty required. Because killing is what we are supposed to do in this situation, regardless of what we want or what we hope to achieve.

"And I need to go to the ladies."

* * *

Sally-Anne finished washing her hands and stepped back into the hallway. Arun's mother was waiting for her.

"You're going to get my son killed." Mrs. Patel's eyes and mouth were hard but her voice was pitched low so as not to carry.

Sally-Anne swore inwardly. An ambush.

"I should never have let him work for you. Did you know, every summer, when he came home from that school, he studied normal subjects? No, you didn't. I bet you don't even know my name. He took his A levels last year. Three top marks. He could have gone on to university, but your precious Ministry mattered more. He doesn't tell me much about your world, but I listen. I pick up things. Accidents. Death. And now you come into my home and talk openly of killing someone powerful.

"We came here to give our children opportunity; you take it away from my child. We came here to deliver them from danger; you risk the life of my only son. And casually. So casually." Mrs. Patel spoke evenly and calmly but her tears dripped steadily down onto the floor.

Sally-Anne did not speak. She could barely think. Her mind had been plowing at full power in a single direction and now it was like trying to turn an aircraft carrier to confront a speedboat.

"I cannot dissuade my son. He is too young to listen to those who love him. So I give thanks that my husband and my daughters are asleep. That they should hear you talk, that they should learn of such things." The woman shook her head.

"So certain you are when it is appropriate to kill, that you will risk others' lives. Do you even know what you are doing?" She looked up at Sally-Anne challengingly. They stared at each other in silence for a long moment and then another. Sally-Anne was frozen, unable to move; she might as well have been a statue.

Mrs. Patel pulled a dishcloth out from somewhere and, kneeling down, wiped away her tears and walked back into the light of the kitchen.

Sally-Anne continued to stand in the hallway, motionless. Now that she was alone, she found many good things to say. How careful she had been. How much caution they were taking. How they weren't acting out of emotion or arrogance, but logic. That — and she was still piecing this together herself — they was doing what would have been required of anyone in their place, whether they approved or not.

She half-opened her mouth to start to say these things, even to an empty hallway. Then Sally-Anne remembered how the older woman's face had looked before she knelt to wipe up her own tears. Sally-Anne closed her mouth. Was this fear and uncertainty what it meant, to be a hero? It had seemed so much simpler, before she'd proven Omega wrong.

Back in the kitchen, the dough balls and the tea were gone. Arun's mother was cleaning up and the others looked at Sally-Anne expectantly. She sat down and addressed them brusquely.

"Any other complaints with my tactics will have to wait. We're here for one reason. To smoke out a traitor based on evidence. A penny for confirming evidence. But a pound for disconfirming evidence. That's what I want to hear right now. Arun."

"Dawlish is still incapacitated." Arun shook his head. "If he's faking, he still hasn't left St. Mungo's. No polyjuice. No Imperius. No owls. No mirror. No visitors, except Percy Weasley tries to stop by after his shift guarding the Death Eaters. But if they're conspiring, it's in thirty-second conversations once every couple days."

"Given how many nasty knocks he's received recently, even a conversation that long would be impressive," said Sam.

"All right," Sally-Anne acknowledged. "There are universes where this evidence exists and Dawlish is guilty, but they're extremely rare. Next. Kingsley."

Sam rubbed the back of his head. "If I didn't know the man, I'd say he was the most likely. But cui bono? He's pushed measures through the Wizengamot that increase the power of the Ministry enormously. But he's sat on them. He's not recruiting. He's still playing defense against Yaxley and the others. He barely leaves his office; the rumor is that he's too busy answering letters from wizards abroad even to interview replacement candidates for people we've lost. These are important offices, sitting vacant."

"Could he be coordinating through the letters?" asked Sally-Anne.

"Possibly," Sam admitted. "But why hide his actions, when the common complaint is that he hesitates? Let's not be too clever by half. You're smart, Sally-Anne, smarter than I thought you were. But smart people make two mistakes. They think they're the only smart ones. Or they think everyone is smarter than they are. They see patterns where there is only noise, genius at the first hint of competence. Kingsley walks like a duck. He talks like a duck. He just may be — "

"A duck. I get it," interrupted Sally-Anne.

"I haven't finished. There is one serious piece of evidence against him." Sam shifted in his chair and his eyes flickered up to Arun's mom. Her back was still turned to them. He looked at Arun and tilted his head.

"Mom, you've done enough. We'll finish up. Anyway, you'd better get Uma up soon, or she'll miss practice again."

"All right." She smiled at her son. "If you need anything..." Mrs. Patel looked coldly at Sally-Anne and left the room.

"You saw Mafalda yesterday," continued Sam, "just as you were leaving with Zhu. She had a question, a question that she put as offhandedly as she could, but, well, she's wound pretty tight at the best of times."

"The Imperturbable?" Sally-Anne raised her eyebrows.

"You noticed that, huh. And she couldn't make eye contact. Or stop fidgeting." Sam paused for emphasis. "Mafalda wanted to know if it was possible to put the Trace on adults. Not just school children."

"And you said?" prompted Zhu.

"The truth. Of course it's possible. Yaxley wanted the same thing. Political suicide if it ever got out we were considering it again, but maybe under these new laws it wouldn't. I don't know. I didn't mention that bit. Then she asked how many people it would be possible to trace simultaneously. Now, we're at about four hundred currently, including children too young for Hogwarts. It's already a lot to maintain, and manage, contrary to public opinion, and that's what I told her." Sam looked down at his hands as they gripped the table.

"She wanted to know how many I'd have to hire in order to Trace ten times that many," finished Sam with a whisper.

"But that's, that's every wizard in the country!" exclaimed Arun. Above them, they could hear the voice of a young girl unhappy to be awake.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" barked Sam, visibly upset. For perhaps the first time that Sally-Anne could remember, his detached manner had cracked. She realized that this was what had been bothering him all morning.

"What did you tell her?" asked Sally-Anne quietly.

"I kept a straight face, if that's what you're asking. I told her at least ten more experienced wizards, probably fifteen at the start. She wanted to know how quickly I could assemble a team and I said six weeks at least. Then she gave me four."

"That doesn't sound like Mafalda," said Arun skeptically.

"Were you there? I didn't think so. Besides," Sam let out an explosive breath, "the person it doesn't sound like is Kingsley. I didn't dare ask where the idea came from; it certainly wasn't hers, but Kingsley's her only direct superior." He sighed. "I miss Amelia. If Kingsley gave that order, everything else we think we know about him is a ruse. Which seems impossible. But who else could have lit a fire under Mafalda?"

"Arthur." Zhu said it like she was putting her entire grubstake on a twelve to one at Belmont.

"Wait," Zhu continued hastily, "before you shoot it down, because you think you know him, just like you think you know Kingsley, hear me out." She shot a glance at Sam. "You've heard how he reacted to a potential threat. We know he's recruiting. And he was talking with Ollivander. We haven't mentioned him yet today, but he seems highly likely to be involved in this, somehow. That's more evidence than we have for everyone else, combined," Zhu finished, flushed.

"Circumstantial," scoffed Arun and looked at his boss questioningly.

"Fine, you've Devil's Advocate on this one," said Sally-Anne.

"Great, thanks. Arthur reacted as any trained wizard would have, especially after what he's been through. So he's recruiting. It would be strange if he wasn't, like Kingsley. We're recruiting. So is Auror Savage, I heard. And talking to Ollivander? There're a thousand reasons to do that, and a violent political coup with the intent of setting up some totalitarian, Big Brother-type society is only one of them. Terrible prior. Weak evidence. Besides, why would he do it? What's his motive?"

"He's a pureblood," replied Zhu. "He's related to most of the Death Eaters — by the way, what's up with you guys and the inbreeding? It's creepy — and he lost a son, you said. He works with Muggles." She was listing the points off on her fingers. "Maybe he thinks Kingsley's soft. Maybe he's a wizard supremacist sympathizer. Maybe he's gone mad with grief. Who knows?"

"So we kill him, based on that?" Arun asked incredulously. "You look up 'meek' in the OED and there he is. He repairs cars. He has a family."

"Time out." Sally-Anne put her hands up. "That's irrelevant. I need disconfirming evidence, Arun. Something that could only exist in a universe where he's innocent."

"OK, he didn't know about Macnair being moved," Arun said.

"Are we sure about that?" asked Sam.

"No, we've not." Sally-Anne took over her glasses, setting them on the table and rubbing where they'd pressed into her nose. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the meeting in Kingsley's office. It seemed to have happened to someone else. "But he was at the council afterwards, when Kingsley told the Aurors and McGonagall and Flitwick about the attack. So he may have been told it was happening in an earlier meeting."

Everyone was silent for a moment, thinking it through. Then Sally-Anne suddenly remembered something. She snapped her fingers. "And he was the one who asked Kingsley to push these new laws through."

"How did he manage that?" Arun pushed back.

How had Arthur done it? Sally-Anne opened her eyes as she realized.

"Giants," Sally-Anne said simply. "He warned the Minister that Macnair had contacts with the giants."

"So Macnair's kidnapping helped Arthur convince Kingsley!" Zhu exclaimed. She leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table. "Cui bono? He bono! He frees Macnair, empowers himself, and starts recruiting. Probably tells Mafalda he's acting under Kingsley's orders, threatens her, I don't know. And you said his son Percy is watching the Death Eaters." Zhu pointed at Arun in triumph. "So Arthur has access to them."

"That would fit with what Alecto said," admitted Sally-Anne.

"What about the Aurors? Savage is recruiting and Williamson is also guarding the Death Eaters." Arun was in retreat, his voice weaker.

"No way." Sam shook his head. "Two Aurors died in the attack on Macnair."

"OK, Rookwood then." Arun protested. "He's in the wind, could have managed the attack himself."

Sam scoffed. "And made no sound since. Left the Death Eaters captive. Pressured Mafalda. And manipulated the Wizengamot."

"It's a fair objection," said Sally-Anne, looking at Arun. He needed to get better at arguing against a hypothesis, she thought, instead of just throwing competing hypotheses against the wall. "He's likely involved. Just not the leader. I expect to get more information on him in a few hours. No, I can't tell you how."

"So you're convinced it's Arthur?" Sam asked slowly.

"We'll need someone to take the fall for his death," dodged Sally-Anne. "If it is him. We can't afford loose ends, given his family. And his future in-laws."

"The Death Eaters," proposed Zhu. "Two birds, one stone."

"Tricky. But possible, maybe, with a little help from someone who hates me." Sally-Anne checked the clock. "As of right now — and please tell me if I'm missing something — there's disconfirming evidence against all the likely suspects except Arthur and there's semi-strong confirming evidence for him." No one said anything. Small feet pounded down the stairs.

"If we do move on Arthur, timing will be critical," Sally-Anne continued. "So we're going to sit here until the plan is perfect and everyone has it memorized. But before we act, I'm going to need something more."

"What?" Zhu asked.

"Practice, what else? And a nice chat with Arthur Weasley," said Sally-Anne, smiling. There was motion in the doorway and she looked over.

* * *

 _April 21st, 1997_

"Hi, dad." Sally-Anne propped her bike against the kitchen door and removed her helmet, breathing heavily. Blood shone in her cheeks and her eyes were bright.

Surprised, he looked up from his book.

"Hello, love. Didn't hear you come in." Her father noticed the clock on the wall above the sink. "Look at the time. You'd better see your mother; you know how she hates waiting."

"In a minute. I'm starving." Sally-Anne laughed. "Maybe riding the bike to work wasn't the best idea after all. Feel like I used up three of my nine lives today; I should just start Apparating like everyone else." She pulled a loaf of bread out of the refrigerator and a block of sharp cheddar.

"You know it really hurts your mother when you ignore her. After all she's done for you." He said it mechanically, as though for the thousandth time.

"Jeez, dad. Let her fight her own battles for once. It's bad enough getting this from her." Sally-Anne put the sandwich into the George Foreman and leaned on it.

"A little respect, Sally-Anne." Her father shook his head. "I don't understand what's happened to you. Working under your mother was one thing. But this new job, I don't know."

"This new job is the best thing that's ever happened to me, dad! I'm getting field experience! I can still practice as much as I want! I'm getting better, dad, so quickly." She turned the sandwich over. "And all mom cares about is that I'm not paying her enough attention!"

"Well, she was crying earlier. Didn't want me to hear, but she was. I hope you're proud of yourself. She loves you and you treat her this way."

"What does she want, dad?" asked Sally-Anne with frustration. "How long can she keep me tied to her apron strings? She home-schooled me, fine. Insisted I intern with her at the Ministry, great. She was a good teacher, credit where credit's due, but I'm an adult now, dad! I deserve some time to myself." Sally-Anne pulled a plate down from the shelf and juggled the hot grilled cheese onto it and took it over to the table. She sat down heavily next to her father and grinned.

"Aren't you happy for me, dad? That I'm happy? What this opportunity has meant to me? To be independent for the first time in, uh, ever?"

"Your mother isn't happy. Doesn't that matter to you? Don't you love her?"

"Of course I do." Sally-Anne chewed her sandwich. She looked up at the clock. Almost six-fifteen. She wondered how far she could push it, before heading back to get the third degree. Why couldn't her mother just let go? Sally-Anne had been working under Mafalda for almost a month now. She was still living at home, still stopping by her mother's office nearly every day. Wasn't that enough? She deserved some space, to finally feel what it was like to be on her own. Her own life! Didn't her mother understand that?

"Well maybe you should act like it," said her father. There was venom in his voice, but it seemed more worn down than usual.

Sally-Anne took another bite of toast and gooey, melted cheddar. After the long ride home it tasted divine. She looked at her father and shivered for some reason. His comb over was getting thinner, his once black hair now almost complete white. He looked paler than she remembered. How long had it been since they'd spent time together, even like this? He was so focused on her mother getting her due that he never spoke up for himself. A sudden pang of guilt struck Sally-Anne.

"I'm sorry, dad. I'll try harder. I will. I promise." Sally-Anne put her hand on his arm; it seemed brittle beneath the flannel sleeve. "You're right. I've been spending a lot of time out of the house lately. I know… I know you can't do that, but I'm going to talk to her. She can't keep — it's ridiculous — I don't think you even understand any more how — I feel like I've been given new eyes — just getting out of this house — it's not like I'm abandoning her — so melodramatic — would do you so much good — not healthy, never getting out — going to tell her so there." She leaned back and blinked rapidly for a moment.

"Things are going to change, dad. I love her, but I won't let her manipulate me, us, anymore. No more letting her play the victim when she doesn't get exactly what she wants. No more lies, no more threats. It's not fair. For either of us. And I'm stronger now," said Sally-Anne confidently.

"Look at the grown up." Her father had picked up his book again. "I'm glad you're so certain about exactly what's right for all of us. Just ignore all your mother's experience since you know everything. I hope you let us know what you decide." He shook his head with suppressed anger, refusing to look at her. "The gratitude."

Sally-Anne stood up. She slowly put the crumby dish in the sink.

"I'm doing this for you, dad. So this... this doesn't have to continue. This isn't OK, what she's done to you, what she's doing. Even if you can't remember it." She opened the refrigerator door to grab a bottle of milk. "I'm going to be a better daughter. To both of you. You'll see. She will too. I promise." Sally-Anne closed the refrigerator door.

Surprised, her father looked up from his book.

"Hello, love. Didn't hear you come in." He noticed the clock on the wall above the sink. "Look at the time. You'd better see your mother; you know how she hates waiting."

Sally-Anne sighed and headed back to the larger bedroom. She wondered why her mother hadn't already come out to berate her for stopping to talk with dad. And there was a light on in Sally-Anne's small room. That was odd.


	9. Forward Momentum

_May 16th, 1998. 10:30 A.M._

Sally-Anne and Zhu sat silently at the island in the kitchen of Zhu's house, waiting.

Sally-Anne kept running through the logistics of their plan. Well, it was Sam's plan, mostly. Although he never specifically said what they should do, his ideas were usually the ones left standing after debate. It was a good plan, she admitted to herself, but it bordered on being too complex. There were still too many ways it could fail. She hoped they weren't out over their skis already.

"How's your shoulder?" asked Zhu suddenly.

A game attempt to start a conversation, Sally-Anne thought, but not good enough.

"Sore."

More silence. Zhu was clearly nervous, shifting in her seat and fidgeting with the large, colorfully wrapped package that Sally-Anne had given her earlier along with instructions. She seemed eager for a distraction.

Zhu broke the silence again. "What did you mean, earlier?"

Sally-Anne raised an eyebrow at the question.

"When you said you'd want to be killed if you were Arthur?" Zhu continued. "That doesn't make sense."

Sally-Anne sighed. She refused to appeal to Robert Axelrod.

"We live in a society where we depend on everyone to follow certain laws. Not those of any particular culture, but fundamental laws of humanity. Someone who doesn't follow them, who exploits others who do, is a bad actor. If I showed you a list of people, from any society, with all their actions, you'd know who the bad actors were. Just with that information. You wouldn't need to know their thoughts. You wouldn't need to know what they hoped would happen as a result of their actions."

"Sounds like the Categorical Imperative." commented Zhu.

"Yes. Yes, exactly." Sally-Anne was surprised to hear that Zhu knew that, but pleasantly. She'd been thinking this through herself, almost non-stop, and Kant certainly wasn't on the Hogwarts curriculum. "Societies are built on trust. To stop bad actors from corrupting others, to stop them from acting to destroy society by themselves, you have to eliminate them. That's the 'what'. The 'how' we discussed yesterday while walking. You haven't forgotten already, have you?" She snuck in a lopsided grin at the girl.

Zhu shook her head but bit her lip.

"I'm guessing, but Arthur would probably say that what he's doing is necessary." Sally-Anne made a face. "He'll murder a few Aurors and take over the Ministry, sure, but only to prevent some future disaster. Who knows what disaster; it doesn't really matter. And his argument would sound perfectly sane and reasonable. Only, it's the same one that Grindelwald used. And Voldemort."

'That the ends justify the means."

"Yes. And their math somehow always works out so that death and destruction are not only justified, but required. I just hope Arthur doesn't have an ideology. Pragmatists like Ms. Carrow who know which side of their bread is buttered can do terrible things." Sally-Anne checked the time; it was nearly eleven o'clock.

"But the real horrors, like genocide, require an end that is absolute. Because absolute ends justify absolute means." Sally-Anne finished. She looked grim. She was thinking of the Holodomor. Stalin had been certain that collectivization would usher in a Soviet paradise.

"But, I'm sorry," asked Zhu timidly, "but aren't we using the same excuse?"

"Zhu, I don't have perfect moral certainty. I used to think I did. But I don't. Maybe that's a good thing. Certainty scares me. But society can't function with power-seeking bad actors, so it requires that they be stopped. If there were another way…" Sally-Anne shook her head. "Killing Arthur, if it is Arthur, is a bad act, in a vacuum, but this is the real world; defectors need to be punished. Cancers need to be cut out, despite the pain.

"And Arthur, if he were given the setup, but not the names, he would agree. He would — "

There was a sharp crack and Sally-Anne cut herself off abruptly. Knabby was standing on the island.

For a split-second, the house elf looked angry when he saw that Sally-Anne was also there. But then his eyes widened again and his voice, when he spoke, was thin and high-pitched.

"Knabby is reporting back as ordered, Mistress! Knabby has good news! Knabby knows where the bad wizard is!"

Sally-Anne felt sick watching his performance. She pictured all the house elves in magical Britain at that moment, bred to obedience, bound to their orders like galley slaves bound to their oars.

 _All a labouring race repines… like a nation in the mines._

She listened as he told them where Rookwood was: some old estate rarely used for anything these days other than tours; he'd murdered the caretakers. Rookwood had a wand and traveled frequently, but was usually home in the afternoons. The house elf couldn't guarantee the schedule.

Zhu explained the plan to Knabby, swore him to secrecy and obedience, then handed him the package with both hands. The wrapping was Christmas trees and puppies, belying its awkward, heavy weight. She also gave him an American penny.

Knabby repeated the instructions back to Zhu and, giving Sally-Anne a quick, hostile glance, vanished again. Sally-Anne breathed more easily. At least he hadn't mentioned anything in front of Zhu. Now they just had to hope that Rookwood was a man of routine.

"Excellent work. I'm heading back to the office. Get yesterday's purchase and get into position. You remember the shop I pointed out. All goes well, I'll see you this afternoon. Very briefly." Sally-Anne didn't bother mentioning what would happen if the plan went pear-shaped. She pictured Mrs. Patel.

"Focus, Sally-Anne," she told herself. She still needed to clear her conscience regarding Arthur. He should be in by now, weekend or no weekend. It was time to win that Bafta.

* * *

 _May 16th, 1998. 11 A.M._

Knock, knock.

"Um, excuse me, oh, hi Mr. Perkins, it's Sally-Anne from down the hall. Yes. Yes, that's right. I was hoping, um, would it be possible for me to see Mr. Weasley. If it's convenient. Just for a minute. Yes. Oh, thank you. Thank you so much."

The office that Mr. Weasley and Mr. Perkins shared was identical to the office she shared with Sam; it was tiny and windowless, with two battered desks pushed together. Mr. Perkins excused himself, allowing Sally-Anne to squeeze into his chair; his desk was completely empty. Arthur smiled affably at her and casually shifted some papers under some other papers. All she could make out was a detailed schematic of the Ministry. She reminded herself to be careful, to remember how easy it is to find confirming evidence when you're looking for it.

"I really appreciate your time, Mr. Weasley, sir. Especially for a junior employee; I've only been here for about a year."

"My pleasure," said Arthur, leaning back in his chair. His expression spoke not only of a hundred other tasks that he was neglecting in order to speak with her, tasks that were much more urgent than the questions of a junior employee, but also that, right then, she was the most important person in the world. The entirety of his attention was focused on her, and her alone. She felt very small, then very honored, then very important, and a little drunk.

"You're Mafalda's girl, aren't you? I noticed you at the Minister's meeting. You keep your head down and work hard." Arthur nodded approvingly. "I respect Hufflepuffs, more than most. You'll go far with the right attitude; I hope you know that." He spoke as though he and Ms. Hopkirk discussed Sally-Anne's enormous career potential every day.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I try to do… to do a good job, sir. But," Sally-Anne looked down and dropped her voice almost to a whisper, "recently it's been getting more difficult, sir."

"In what way?" asked Arthur sympathetically.

"We've never been this busy. I'm inexperienced, sir, so I really need your advice. Mr. Yaxley was awful, I know, and thank goodness he's safely put away but, well, he got things — bad things, certainly — done. There was order. Wizards weren't breaking the law. I love our new Minister, he's great, really, but it just seems like he's… like he's lost control, sir, and I don't know what's going to happen." Sally-Anne's eyes glistened with a silent appeal as she finished.

"Mmmm." Arthur's face was impassive for a moment as he studied her carefully. Sally-Anne hoped she'd played it right. Dressing as though for an important meeting, but doing so poorly: the pressed shirt with one collar popping out from an understated yet unattractive sweater that she'd pulled down over a long, shapeless skirt. Heavy leggings. Flats. Legs pressed together, bobbing slightly on the balls of her feet with repressed anxiety. An expression of nervous competence, with a pinch of awe-struck.

"I can't comment on the performance of Mr. Shacklebolt, you understand," said Arthur significantly.

"Oh, of course not! It's just, everyone respects you and I feel like... I feel like you're a man of action, sir. Even the Minister follows your recommendations. And I couldn't, I couldn't go to Ms. Hopkirk with this, sir, I just couldn't. So who else, who better to ask than you?"

Arthur was silent for a moment longer, then his mouth quirked, as though he were smiling and frowning at the same time.

"Tell me, uh…"

"Sally-Anne Perks."

"Sally-Anne, do you know what a power vacuum is?"

"When a strong leader dies without a successor, isn't it?"

"Yes, very good. Kingsley is a decent man. I report to him — directly, you know — and he's trying his best. Only..." Arthur blew out through his teeth, "...only he's trying to replace Albus Dumbledore. And Amelia Bones. And Rufus Scrimgeour. And, well, frankly Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy, who kept a lot of wizards in line who'd just as soon spit in Dumbledore's eye, or Kingsley's." Arthur smiled rather grimly at that, as though Lord Malfoy had walked off the job without giving his two weeks notice.

"But, but power vacuums don't end well, do they, sir?" asked Sally-Anne more confidently.

"No, they don't," said Arthur shortly. "Unless someone strong takes over, and quickly, many competing forces emerge. They tend to tear apart and destroy the society — empire or country — they hoped to rule. But I don't suppose you would have learned much about that, at Hogwarts."

"No, sir."

"What do they teach them at these schools." Arthur laughed at his own wit. "No, I didn't think so." He leaned forward, serious again. "We, here at the Ministry, have a responsibility to fill that vacuum, regardless of the…" he chose his words carefully, "personal qualities and efficacy of the current Minister. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. But how — "

Arthur cut her off. "Your office is an important one, although I wonder if Mafalda quite understands that. Has similarities to my own. Do you know why I wrote the Muggle Protection Act and worked night and day to see it passed?"

"No, sir."

"Few do. They think me a Muggle-lover, tainted by my interactions with them, and with the tools they use." Arthur's face showed his contempt for those who took things at their face value. "But I wasn't working overtime with a family waiting at home for the sake of Muggles. I was protecting us." He thrust his weak chin at Sally-Anne. "I was protecting you. Your family. All wizards, everywhere." He drummed his fingers on the desk.

"Picture a world without that Act," Arthur continued. "A world where I failed, where you failed. Where the Statute of Secrecy was broken and Muggles, through accident or malice, learned of our existence. What then?"

"I don't know, sir. I suppose... I suppose there could be war." Sally-Anne looked frightened.

"Yes! We underestimate Muggles because they are inferior. But their inferiority has forced them to be clever to survive. They have weapons that wizards know nothing of. Perhaps some day I'll try to explain them to you. And if they discovered us, well, they're savage enough to use them on their own kind. I doubt they'd hesitate to destroy us." Arthur spoke with absolute certainty.

"But, sir, isn't it inevitable that they discover us?" Sally-Anne asked timidly. "Even with everyone at the Ministry working around the clock, the way things are now I feel like it's only a matter of time." She dropped her voice again, sharing a secret with a trustworthy ally. "I've seen what's happening out there, sir. They have cameras everywhere, now. On buildings. People can even carry them around! And the government tracks everyone, gives them each a number. We don't have those numbers! Isn't someone at the Muggle Ministry bound to notice?"

"Our governments have a working relationship at the highest levels," replied Arthur, waving away her fear. "Besides, you give them too much credit. No, if the mistake is made, it will come from our side."

"One of our teachers thought integration might be a good thing. She said almost every wizard could either work for the Ministry or play Quidditch professionally because our lives were so easy. Housing, water, transportation. She told us Muggles struggle for what we take for granted."

"I swear, half those teachers deserve the sack. Muggles do just fine on their own; I'm sure they prefer it that way. It's not like we're hurting them, and what duty do we have to solve their problems?" Arthur ground his teeth, his formerly pleasant expression distorted now with anger.

"Don't mess with complex systems!" Arthur brought his hand down hard on his desk. He was almost shouting. "Ask your progressive professor in her stone tower why we haven't integrated already! Has every wizard ever been wrong? And not just us. What about wizards in Russia, France, Nigeria, even China? What does she expect, peace in our time? No! There would be war and the death of every wizard: man, woman, and child. Until all that's left of us are the memories of the snipers who put bullets through our brains from half a mile away!"

He took a deep breath. "You don't know Muggles like I do, Sally-Anne. You're a young girl, even remind me of Ginny a bit. Trust a man with experience. We need to stay away from them. Period."

"I agree with you, sir, one-hundred percent. You are absolutely correct. That's why I work so hard. We loyal Ministry people have to stick together and prevent a disaster. But with Kingsley…" Sally-Anne left the thought hanging.

"He's making our job harder, no doubt. Not the right man for the job, I'm afraid," Arthur said with a mildly scornful smile, as if acknowledging what both of them knew but preferred not to say. "But the correct response to a more difficult problem is not to give up, but to find a better answer."

"A better answer, sir? I mean, I know we're allowed to recruit again, but is that enough? Isn't there more we should be doing, to keep our families safe?"

"Yes, there is. I'm glad to see you understand the urgency." Again he smiled his bitter smile. "Not everyone here does. That's why we need better information about what wizards are doing. All the time. And timely. Wand Screening is a joke; you must know that. A month's delay? By then, if word got out, Hogwarts would be a bloody crater. There are a lot of people here who consider themselves virtuous because they have good intentions. They think everything will turn out for the best as long as they think it should. If wishes were horses..." He trailed off for a moment, then resumed with controlled ferocity.

"They don't understand; all that matters — _all_ that matters — are the outcomes of your actions. Deciding to do whatever has the best net result, whatever the cost." Arthur said it with a note of finality.

Sally-Anne saw two phantom boxes standing on Mr. Perkins' desk. One was opaque. The other was transparent. She had taken only one, because that rule, if followed consistently, would help everyone, if not herself immediately. It was a rule that enabled trust between strangers, and trust was what allowed society to survive. Across from her, a shadowy Mr. Weasley immediately seized both boxes, because that had the higher payoff.

"He's not ignorant," Sally-Anne told herself. "He's not stupid. He's not evil. It's a well-informed, logical, well-meaning decision. If all you can see is the worst-case scenario. But he is wrong. "

"Why?" asked the insubstantial Mr. Weasley. "Why is your certainty right, and mine the mistake? What if I'm right? How can you justify killing me to save magical Britain, when my only crime is killing a few idiots in order to save the whole world?"

"Because people like you have to be stopped, and I'm in a position to stop you. It's my duty," said Sally-Anne calmly.

"People 'like me'? I'm not a type!" spat the ghostly Arthur.

"Yes, you are. And now I know your type. You know you're right and there's no evidence that could dent that certainty. You believe you're doing absolute good, and that makes you capable of absolute evil. If everyone were like you, this world would became a hell, full of distrust and fear, betrayal and short term thinking. But if everyone were like me, well, we'd cooperate even when it seemed a little silly."

"What about the Muggles? Are you willing to gamble with the end of the world? The death of my daughter. The death of your father. You're awfully blase about risking others' lives."

"Just because something isn't certain not to happen, doesn't meet you have to act as though it will," replied Sally-Anne. "I know you can't understand that. That's why I have to kill you. I wish there were another way."

The apparition of Mr. Weasley faded away and a warm, electric feeling filled Sally-Anne. It wasn't certainty. She was still terrified of doing the wrong thing. It was trust. She trusted herself. She trusted anyone who acted based on her principles. She looked wide-eyed at the real Arthur, as though a little dazed, sitting on the forward edge of her chair.

"I trust you," she lied.

Arthur smiled. He seemed to relax.

"I trust that you know what's best," she continued. "Even though I have a difficult time making predictions, your confidence reassures me. What can I do to help? Anything. Name it."

Arthur flipped open a legal pad and studied something. "I value loyalty. But I believe it needs to be demonstrated. Let's begin with this; don't come into the office tomorrow. Stay home. And we'll talk again on Monday."

"Very good, sir." She didn't ask why, only straightened her glasses seriously and stood to leave.

* * *

 _May 16th, 1998. 1:45 P.M._

Sam paced up and down the small room. Occasionally, he would sit down on the short leather sofa in the corner, but inevitably his leg would twitch and, with a frustrated growl, he would spring back to his feet and start pacing again.

Sally-Anne wondered idly if he thought she was calm because she was sitting still, cross-legged on the freshly made bed. She spun her American penny again into the air, caught it, and slapped it down on the other hand. Lincoln's face looked dutifully off to her right.

"Heads."

Sam crossed over to the window again and looked down from the unbooked St. Martin's Lane Hotel's studio room they were currently using.

"If Arthur is heading back to Ollivander's today, he should be getting there soon. Unless he's already gone, and we missed him. Or Ollivander came to him, in which case…" Sam trailed off.

"Sam, have you ever had to pre-commit to doing something?"

"What kind of question is that, at a time like this?"

"I'm curious. And I'm bored. We could be here another couple of hours, easy, and you keep walking in front of the mirror. It's disorienting."

"Didn't realize you were so self-absorbed." Sam paused and checked the line of sight from Sally-Anne to the small vanity mirror that sat on the TV stand directly in front of her.

"Sorry, sorry, I'll stop." He sighed and slumped back down into the couch again. "It's just, I know I'm supposed to be the calm one, but I can't stop thinking about how many ways this could blow up in our faces."

"They would have told us if he left his shop," said Sally-Anne reassuringly.

"What if Arthur sends this Andy person, or some other new recruit we don't know about?"

"I'm hoping he's too self-reliant not to come himself. His intensity, when I talked to him." Sally-Anne shook her head with conviction. "No, he needs to be there."

"You're hoping. How comforting." Sam rolled his eyes.

"Don't try to sidetrack me, Sam. Pre-commitment."

"Like what, Cortez burning his ships or something?"

"Is that pre-commitment?" asked Sally-Anne curiously. "I thought it was more like the wedding idea. You know, stand in front of your community and declare a permanent union, and the community knows to kick your butt if you break it, that sort of thing."

"Same difference. At least in theory, since burning your ships seems more credible than promising really hard, cross my heart, pinky swear." Sam looked down at his hands.

"Credibility. Exactly! That's my point." Sally-Anne snapped her fingers.

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," said Sam irritably. "Do you really trust this house elf?"

"Zhu ordered him directly, so yes. Why is Cortez credible and the wedding isn't?"

"Because Cortez destroyed his soldiers' only other option," explained Sam. "He didn't just get them to agree to fight, he took away their power not to."

"Right!" exclaimed Sally-Anne. "Like Odysseus, tying himself to the mast! He knew if he had the choice, he'd try to swim to the sirens and drown, so he took away his own freedom."

"No, he didn't. He freely chose to be tied up, knowing he wouldn't be in his right mind later."

"So he took freedom away from someone else?" Sally-Anne sounded puzzled.

"It's your example, you tell me," said Sam. He looked over from her to the TV stand. "Are you sure you can see the mirror clearly?"

"As crystal. But that other person — Odysseus, but enthralled — would have said that he was acting appropriately, and the guy who decided to tie him up was the knucklehead."

"That's fair," admitted Sam. "So you're saying these are two different people, Odysseus 1 and Odysseus 2. Like in Dr. Seuss."

"I think so. Now-him and Future-him. And Now Odysseus tied the hands — literally — of Future Odysseus," Sally-Anne said.

"Maybe I should send my Patronus. Just to make sure they're all right," fretted Sam.

"Same with Cortez. He tied the hands of his men before they had to decide," continued Sally-Anne.

"Doesn't sound like marriage to me," said Sam sourly.

"Wait, why?"

"Just what I said. You can't destroy the freedom of your future self so easily in the real world. You might commit at a wedding, you might ask the community to hold you to that commitment, but you can still ignore your vows. They're not Unbreakable, after all." He sounded bitter for some reason, but Sally-Anne was too intent on his point to notice.

"Great, progress. Pattern's emerging. Credible pre-commitment is when you destroy the freedom of your future self. Like Unbreakable Vows. Like, what was its name, the Dead Man Switch of Dr. Strangelove. You know, nuclear war? Mutual Assured Destruction?"

"This isn't a Muggle reference, is it?" asked Sam skeptically.

Sally-Anne ignored him. She was on a roll. "Or throwing the steering wheel out of a car and making sure they see it in a game of Chicken!"

"Again, I say, huh?" said Sam.

"Oh, never mind."

"What if Arthur sussed you out?" Sam sounded nervous again. "A little weird, you just showing up at his office and grilling him. He could be on his way here right now."

"Please. I didn't grill him. I allowed him to convince me." Her expression spoke of wounded pride and Sam chuckled.

"All right, Machiavelli. I'll shut up. No, please continue rambling about credibility and destroying freedom and marriages and what have you. All your areas of expertise." He swung his legs out over the end of the couch and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Attention has a bandwidth. Don't try to distract me with the truth," said Sally-Anne in a fake scolding manner. "Anyway, the key seems to be voluntary destruction of freedom. Hmm. Not sure I'm thrilled with that, if your future self is a different person than your present self, but perhaps if she's going to be under duress, then it's OK."

"So we have Odysseus," she counted on her fingers. "Cortez. MAD. Chicken. Vows. All credible. Then making a promise, even a public promise, which isn't entirely credible because no power is destroyed."

Sam snorted.

"But we're missing something," Sally-Anne continued. Her brows knitted again. "We're saying credible pre-commitment requires limiting options. A reduction in power. But what if your future self will have _more_ power? What if you can't pre-commit to one choice by destroying the alternatives because you're actually going to have more choices?"

"Then it's impossible." Sam's voice was muffled under his arm.

"I don't understand that."

Sam swung his legs into a sitting position again, but didn't get up. He looked unusually subdued.

"The whole point is you have to tie your hands because you know the temptation will be too strong to resist. If Future Odysseus still has the freedom to choose temptation, we know he'll swim to the Sirens," said Sam emphatically. "And drown," he added.

"So, what then?" asked Sally-Anne heatedly. "I mean, temptation is everywhere. We're always faced with tradeoffs. Passing up something tempting now, like a cookie, in exchange for maybe more health later on."

"If you haven't noticed, Sally-Anne, most people's self control is poor and sloping downwards. Just because you're not one of them…"

"Look at the comedian. So you're saying freedom's the problem? Because I don't want to believe that," she said flatly.

"Not freedom." Sam shook his head. "Freedom is something you have over yourself. You want to eat the cookie? Eat the cookie. No. Power. Power is something you have over others. Odysseus had freedom. Cortez had power, the power to make his men participate in genocide because they couldn't sail away."

"So you think power is the problem," said Sally-Anne thoughtfully.

"Power _is_ the problem." Sam laid back down again. He checked his watch and groaned. "Past two."

"But power... I mean, _somebody's_ got to have it," said Sally-Anne.

"In ancient Athens, political power was assigned randomly. Imagine if every wizard could be Minister of Magic, but only for a year."

"Couldn't be much worse than our system. Or its results."

Sam laughed sardonically. "And no politicking, no sucking up to the _Daily Prophet_ , no agreeing to terrible laws because of pressure from some pureblood supremacist in the Wizengamot. I forget who said it, but it was along the lines of: 'only those who do not seek power can be trusted with it'. So come clean, Sally-Anne, what would you do if you were Minister for a year?"

"Cookies only if you finish your vegetables," she deflected. "But what you're describing is still power."

"Yes, power, but it's spread out. It's not concentrated." Sam scrambled to his feet, animated. "There's no strong man ruling for decades. No ruling class. And most decisions were put to a vote, a true democracy. So no one had power the way we think of it. Well, except for the really good speakers. That was an issue, I guess," he admitted.

"So solve the problem of power by spreading it around," Sally-Anne said slowly.

"Basically. As you said yourself, then no one is above the law and defectors get punished by everyone. Just knowing that makes people trust each other and cooperate. But your idea, of credible pre-commitment when power is going to increase? No way. That's impossible." Sam shook his head grimly.

"Impossible?"

"Yes!" cried Sam. "Impossible! Power corrupts. Don't roll your eyes at me! It's trite because it's true. Never trust anyone who tries to seize power, but promises not to use it. Increased power and pre-commitment can't coexist. Pick one. I'd pick a world where people have freedom, but little power, so their promises mean something."

"So you can trust them."

"Exactly. Incentives can create trust between us, but only if neither of us has power. How can I possibly trust someone who has both power and an incentive to use her power to hurt me? It's impossible; you can't do it."

Sally-Anne closed her eyes. She saw again the shock on Omega's face, when she'd only taken one box.

"Yes, I could," she said. "There is a way to trust someone with power, even the power to harm you: your future self, a partner, even a stranger."

"Explain that one to me," said Sam disbelievingly.

"Track record," Sally-Anne said simply.

"Is that it?" scoffed Sam. "Want to add a third word, maybe, to that extensive — "

Sally-Anne opened her eyes. Zhu's face appeared on the vanity mirror.

"Green," said Zhu.


	10. Meet The New Boss

_September 1st, 1991_

"You can wait here, Perks," said the slender, severe old woman. "The Headmaster will be with you shortly."

The words reminded Sally-Anne of trips to the doctor, but the professor — how pompous were these people; they taught at a secondary school — was far more animated than the bored and overworked nurses Sally-Anne had met. The woman looked down at Sally-Anne with an expression that was probably supposed to be equal parts exasperated and bemused, but which came across as terrifying. Then the professor — McGonagall? Something Scottish, at any rate, Sally-Anne thought — left her alone in the room. Albus Dumbledore's office. The holy of holies.

Her heart beat faster. Could the trap be any more obvious?

Slowly and carefully, Sally-Anne walked over to the squat, plush chair that stood in front of the Headmaster's large, imposing desk. She sat down and looked over at the enormous chair across the desk from her and pictured the most powerful wizard in the world sitting in it, looking at her with annoyance. His chair was practically a throne, while hers was obviously designed to sink its occupant into a ludicrous position: forced to look up, uncomfortable, exposed.

She stood up and, gently gripping the back of the comfy chair, tried to look around the room casually. How was she being observed?

Much of the room was cluttered with nick-nacks that continuously puffed smoke and sputtered. She supposed that to Dumbledore the sound had long since faded into the background as white noise. Since this was her first time here, however, she found it distracting. A clever tactic, she thought.

There, the portraits. Only several of them were currently occupied, and the men she could see were pretending to sleep, but it was clear they were watching her. With instructions to report to Dumbledore, undoubtedly.

The awkward, low slung chair. The irritating, uncontrollable background noises. The row of authority on the wall, as though she had been brought before a tribune of the Inquisition. Her opinion of Albus Dumbledore went right through the floorboards. She was familiar with bullies.

And his open, engaging manner at the Sorting fitted with that, she thought, as she scrambled to figure out a game plan before he arrived. Dumbledore evidently saw himself as the chummy authority figure, the man with power who condescended to understand the powerless. Staying on good terms with such a man was easy. All it required was showing you had as exalted an opinion of him as he did of himself. But by having declared she wished to leave Hogwarts, after less than a day at the school, she had already, unknowingly, insulted him. And such an ego, Sally-Anne knew, would bruise easily, even when challenged by someone as inconsequential as a first-year.

So how could she calm the waters and be allowed to leave? If she told him the truth, she had no doubt he would force her to remain, citing Sally-Anne's immaturity and best interests. And Sally-Anne couldn't count on her mother to help. A familiar feeling.

But perhaps she could use her mother in another way.

Just then, Sally-Anne heard the door open and the tall, bearded wizard she had seen earlier, at High Table in the Great Hall, came into the room and seated himself on his throne-like chair. With a twinkle in his eye, he motioned for her to be seated as well. She obeyed.

"Minerva tells me you no longer wish to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You must be quite precocious, to have decided on your first day that we have nothing to teach you."

With a shock of recognition, Sally-Anne realized that she wasn't the only one who was hiding something. It seemed absurd that he too could be afraid of exposure, she thought; it's not like we're Muggles! But there it was. His secret. Unfortunately, she had no time to think about the ramifications, not with a non-question like that hanging in the air.

"Hogwarts is lovely, sir," she replied, refusing to take the bait. "I just don't think it's right for me."

"Because you were sorted into Hufflepuff? All the houses have produced excellent wizards. And witches. I wouldn't let that dissuade you." He said it gently and kindly.

Could Dumbledore wear his contempt for Helga's House any more plainly, Sally-Anne wondered. How typical of Gryffindors to dismiss anyone different than themselves. She was proud she had been sorted into Hufflepuff; patience and discipline were the foundational virtues and, without them, rashness, cleverness, and ambition accomplished nothing.

Despite having been at Hogwarts for only a few hours, Sally-Anne had talked to several of the older students in each House. This had not been easy. Talking between the years seemed like a taboo and as for mingling between Houses... But she'd learned what she'd needed; the trick had been asking each House what they thought of the others. The Sorting Hat's song had told her what they thought of themselves.

She could hardly imagine a system where students were more set up to fail.

Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, continually reassured of their virtue and wisdom, were almost certain to become arrogant egomaniacs, substituting credentials for achievement, test scores and self-regard for experience. As for the clearly belittled Hufflepuffs and hated Slytherins, well, could any child suffer through seven years of ritual insult and humiliation without breaking or becoming what they were expected to be? Only the strongest could hope to survive without a debilitating inferiority complex.

No, her House wasn't the issue.

"No, sir," she said, softly.

"Well, what then? You can trust me, Sally-Anne; tell me the truth." Dumbledore leaned forward, templing his hands.

She did trust him. To be himself. He cared about the students, she saw that, and would help them so long as they conformed to his conceptions of what a student should be. So long as they played their roles properly. As for the others, he would simply have no use for them. Perhaps that benign neglect was healthier, in the end, than the fragile attention of such an ego. She wondered, idly, if his wars against Grindelwald and Voldemort had broken his mind.

No matter. As long as she could appear irrelevant and insignificant without opposing him, Dumbledore would lose interest and let her leave.

"It's just, my mother needs me at home. My father…" Sally-Anne twisted her hands, as though the details were too much to bear.

"She let me come, but I've realized, it's not right, sir. It's selfish of me. My place is there." She looked up for a moment to gauge his reaction. For just a moment, his blue eyes met her wide brown ones and she felt a flutter at the edges of her mind. Immediately, she wrenched her gaze back down to the floor, as though overcome with nerves.

Legilimency!

Her mother had taught her enough to recognize the signs. Unfortunately, Dumbledore has obviously realized that she realized what he had done.

"Impressive, I must say, for someone of your age to have even rudimentary training in Occlumency." His tone was light, as though he hadn't just attempted to violate her mind. How many of the students had Dumbledore abused in this fashion? Sally-Anne felt slightly ill and tried to focus.

"Thank you, sir. My mother, she works at the Ministry. She's had some bad experiences, I think; she told me she doesn't want anyone else to be able to access my thoughts." She grimaced, but only slightly, as she caught her mistake. Luckily, Dumbledore hadn't noticed.

"Mrs. Perks, Mrs. Perks. Ahh, in the Obliviators office." He sounded amused. "Well, I certainly commend your mother for having your best interests at heart, and you for learning even a little of such a subtle skill at your age.

"Although," Dumbledore continued with a wise and knowing air, "going to such lengths does strike me as bordering on paranoia."

Not paranoid, enough, Sally-Anne thought, continuing to look at either the floor or the enormous desk, flushed from anger and fear. She hoped he interpreted her color as embarrassment, but a cold fury swept through her.

Here was a crime, a willful transgression against those he was supposed to protect — no matter the supposedly noble ends he would surely claim it served — and she was absolutely powerless to do anything about it.

Dumbledore was untouchable.

The most magically powerful wizard in the world. He could murder her in a blink.

The most politically powerful wizard in the country. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Head Mugwump. He could destroy her with a word.

Her eyes grew hot at her own impotence, at the scope of the abuse she could not prevent. Not yet.

"However, it does speak to her concern as a mother, and her ability as a teacher. She does intend to homeschool you, I presume?" He smiled genially, inviting her to agree that such an education, while perhaps not completely worthless, could never hold a candle to what a Dumbledore-managed institution could provide.

Sally-Anne wanted to scream. Old enough to know that her mother was a self-absorbed tyrant, she had hoped, she had prayed, that Hogwarts would be different, that it would provide an escape from a house without privacy and, given what her mother had made of her father, without relief. But no. She couldn't stay here, and it wasn't just the grotesque House system, or the genial authoritarianism.

It was the pedagogy.

She'd met junior employees at the Ministry who couldn't cast the Patronus. Who couldn't do nonverbal spells. She'd dismissed them as cases of nepotism, but here at Hogwarts she'd mentioned spells she'd already mastered and been told they were only taught in Seventh Year. The students, even in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, seemed more focused on Quidditch and class pecking orders than mastering Transfiguration or Battle Magic. And some of these students had memories of Voldemort! Did they think mastery a matter of osmosis, or exams? It seemed absurd, but if she wanted to learn, really learn, and become powerful, Hogwarts was the last place she should be. Her mother, for all her volatility and intrusiveness, at least knew how to teach. Probably so that her daughter wouldn't be a bigger embarrassment. Somehow, that was reassuring.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, I guess you have my blessing. I'm glad we got to talk, though, aren't you?" Dumbledore smiled, wrinkling his nose, as though they had really connected, were best friends now, and had braided each other's hair.

How could he know so much, and understand so little?

What was it, Sally-Anne asked herself, that made communication impossible between adults and children? Surely adults had been children once upon a time. Surely they had to remember the absolute power adults had. How defenceless children were, how at the mercy of adults. Surely they had to remember how they had been actual people at that age, not toys or dolls to be treated casually. But she had yet to meet an adult who saw her as a real person. Who treated her with dignity and not with a patronizing tolerance. Who looked her in the eye.

Unless, Sally-Anne reminded herself bitterly, they were trying to violate her mind.

"Yes, sir. An honor, sir."

"No need for such formality, now." Dumbledore winked. "I suppose I'm no longer your Headmaster, am I?" He stood up to show her out, rearranging his robes and hat. Sally-Anne was careful not to raise her eyes until she was safely out of his office. Walking back to McGonagall's office, she started trembling, uncontrollably.

* * *

 _May 16th, 1998. 2:07 P.M._

"Green," said Zhu.

Sally-Anne set the American penny on the TV stand and pointed her wand at it. Immediately, Lincoln's head began to rotate clockwise.

Before it had turned halfway there was a loud crack. Knabby appeared. He had plaster on his ears.

"Green," Knabby said.

Sam seized the penny and vanished.

Sally-Anne Apparated to a small room, dusty with neglect, overlooking Diagon Alley. Across the street, a floor down, she could see Ollivander's shop. Arun was standing next to her. He was wearing a backpack that seemed almost too heavy for him and he was looking through a pair of binoculars. On a table directly in front of them a black sniper rifle with sound suppressor was mounted on a bipod.

Sally-Anne put her eye to the scope. She breathed out and pulled the trigger.

"Green," said Arun.

Sally-Anne vanished. Arun picked up the rifle and disappeared in turn.

* * *

 _May 16th, 1998. 2:07 P.M._

Two women burst into the restroom. For a moment, the sound of the crowded bar spilled in with them, only to be cut off as the oak door swung back into place. Of the three roomy stalls, only the middle one was available.

"You go, dear," said one of the women. She turned to look at herself in the mirror over the sinks. The mirror showed her making faces and, behind her, pairs of shoes in the narrow gaps between the stall doors and the wooden floor: the first two stalls now contained pairs of heels while the last, pressed up against the restroom's far wall, showed a pair of trainers.

"...she came out at all." The voice of the woman's friend was muffled by the door of the middle stall.

"Did you see what she was wearing? A little bold, I think," commented the woman pouting at herself in the mirror. For a split second, there was a second pair of trainers in the far stall. The second pair were right in front of the first pair, almost directly beneath the stall door. Then a toilet flushed and the first pair vanished. The stall door opened and the woman glanced over in the mirror.

"All yours," said Sally-Anne. She stepped up to the adjacent sink and smiled over at the waiting woman. The woman smiled back automatically and then began to rummage in her purse for something as she turned to enter the open stall. Sally-Anne washed her hands and pushed the restroom door open, stepping through the lintel and into the noise and heat of the Three Broomsticks.

At the bar, Sam handed her a pint of butterbeer.

"Or did you want something stronger?" he asked. Sally-Anne shook her head in a satisfied sort of way and took a long sip from the glass.

"I was thinking," said Sam casually, as though continuing a recent conversation, "about practice. Strange for him to have been so powerful, without anyone knowing. Motivation isn't strength, you know."

Sally-Anne took another swallow and pictured sessions with her mother. "Sparring partner, I suppose. Perkins?"

"Mmmm." Sam leaned over, putting an elbow on the bar. "What did you hear? About the last battle. At Hogwarts, I mean. Other than You-Know-Who, the most powerful wizard there was...?"

"Black, probably." Sally-Anne shrugged. "But she's dead."

"I'm terrible at remembering rumors," replied Sam. "Remind me who killed her."

The color drained from Sally-Anne's face.

* * *

 _May 16th, 1998. 2:07 P.M._

Between Arun and the sea there was nothing but thick green grass and brush. Behind him rippled empty, endless, time-worn hills. He set the rifle onto the wet ground with a squelch, then slung the backpack down next to it.

Arun knelt and opened the backpack. First, he pulled out a mask. Then he strapped on a heavy cylinder that was attached to the mask by a length of hose. The cylinder was yellow and said SCOTT in sturdy black letters. He put on the mask and adjusted it.

He took a moment to check the wind.

Standing up again, Arun drew his wand and transfigured the rifle into what looked liked a piece of white paper. He mumbled a spell and a small flame appeared, instantly consuming the paper. A pause, then his wand moved again. There was a short rain of infinitesimal fragments of plastic and metal onto the grass.

Arun looked out over the water, took a deep breath, and vanished.

* * *

 _May 16th, 1998. 6:15 P.M._

The room was empty, save for a bed and a dresser, as though anything else had been rejected as superfluous.

A young woman came in. She wasn't particularly attractive. She wore an unbecoming outfit. She took clothes out of the dresser and placed them in neat piles on the bed.

An older woman appeared in the doorway. She looked unhappy. She was also semi-transparent. Clearly agitated, she started to rant at the young woman.

The young woman pulled down a suitcase from the closet and continued to pack.

The older woman's ranting grew louder, more threatening. Outrage and martyrdom were written in the deep lines of her face.

The young woman zipped up the suitcase, then paused. She glanced around the room, giving it a final once-over.

The yelling trailed off and an expression of surprise, almost shock, crossed the older woman's face. For a moment she looked as though she had just been startled out of an unpleasant dream. Then she faded away into nothingness.

Tears stood on the young woman's face. She turned off the ceiling light, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

 _May 17th, 1998. 8 A.M._

"... that's unfair. By the time this office even learned of what was happening, it was all over," the man in the pillbox hat said defensively.

"Two weeks, Kingsley!" raged Minerva McGonagall. "We promised support. In. Two. Short. Weeks. Meanwhile, you bullied the ability to hire at your own discretion through the Wizengamot. Show us the new Aurors. Show us the new Unspeakables. Where are they? You can't, because you didn't. But apparently, under your nose, Arthur Weasley was building an army and plotting a coup!"

"Impossible for us to have known," Kingsley protested, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.

"You lost control, Kingsley. Admit it. Of both the Death Eaters — you promised they were under strict surveillance — and your own staff! And _this_ is the result." McGonagall threw the morning edition of the _Daily Prophet_ across the Minister's desk. "And frankly, that I had to read the story in the paper… insult to injury."

"We have people out looking…"

McGonagall silenced the Minister with a look and slumped into a chair. Kingsley's office was, if anything, more disordered than it had been a week ago. Auror Savage, Sally-Anne, and Sam were trying not to lean against one of the piles of papers and risk an avalanche. Auror Dawlish, who had been half-escorted, half-carried back from St. Mungo's, looked like he was simply trying not to pass out. All four of them, however, were doing an excellent job of not drawing attention to themselves.

"Correct me when I make a mistake. I'm still catching up." McGonagall's voice was quieter now, thought Sally-Anne. It was no longer machine gun fire. It was piano wire.

"Arthur Weasley, driven mad by grief, somehow tracks down Rookwood and kills him, at the same time collapsing half of Monroe Manor. The other Death Eaters, apparently having suborned Williamson some time ago, again without your knowledge, and fearing for their own safety, get MacNair to put a Muggle bullet through Arthur's head in the middle of the afternoon in Diagon-I-can't-believe-I'm-actually-saying-this-Alley. In front of families. In front of children!"

McGonagall took a deep, steadying breath and continued.

"His son, without bothering to count to ten, immediately attacks the Death Eaters in response."

Sally-Anne and Sam, having already read the paper, maintained their sangfroid.

"And it gets better," McGonagall continued icily. "Body count from _that_ little vigilante raid: Williamson, dead. Yaxley, dead. Rowle, dead. Percy, may he rest in peace, dead." The Headmistress swallowed and looked at the ceiling. "He was always loyal to a fault, but what a moment to start thinking for himself."

"And Doholov and Travers on the run. With Macnair," she added. "At least his escape is cleared up. Although," and here McGonagall's voice started to crescendo again, "perhaps it would have been better to learn of it in some other way than by having him learn his comrades' Muggle methods and murder one of our own in broad daylight!"

Kingsley cleared his throat. "I think this entire incident has already received enough publicity. Although there are rumblings in the Wizengamot about passing an Arthur Weasley Law."

"Giving the Ministry even more power, I suppose," commented McGonagall dryly. "At least what's left of it." Here she turned and looked sharply at the others.

"That's why you're here." She took a deep breath. "The situation was bad enough a week ago. Today, I'm afraid to say, it's teetering on unrecoverable. I have another piece of bad news, one you may not be aware of. The Minister told me only just before we asked you lot to come in. Mafalda Hopkirk was particularly close to Mr. Weasley and has, despite our best efforts, decided to resign. Effective an hour ago.

"We need to start rebuilding. Immediately. Robert, I know you were making progress on recruiting new Aurors. Do it. Faster. With three Death Eaters loose, time is against us." McGonagall looked at Sally-Anne.

"Sally-Anne, effective immediately, you are the interim — I say that again, _interim_ — head of the DMLE. Sam will replace Mafalda. Not that your shiny new titles mean much right now. I'll be blunt. What we need now is the appearance of continuity. Of competence. Do not let us down." McGonagall made it sound like a threat.

"Kingsley, Horace, Filius, and I will decide on a permanent head as quickly as possible," McGonagall continued, "but in the meantime I expect you to perform brilliantly. That means new blood. Bodies, Ms. Perks. We need bodies. Starting with, I think, Goldstein and Zabini in your office. A breach of the Statute is the last thing we need. Robert, we'll put Granger and Longbottom under you for now. Expect them by end of day."

"And maybe a nice desk job for Dawlish. Of course, as long as everything I've said is all right with you, Minister," McGonagall said meaningfully. Kingsley nodded hastily.

"Glad to hear it. All right, people, get to work!"

The Aurors and Sam dutifully filed out. McGonagall glanced questioningly at Sally-Anne, who had stayed. Sally-Anne looked at them challengingly.

"I'm afraid we have some loose ends, Headmistress, Minister. Where exactly did MacNair get a new wand?"

* * *

 _May 17th, 1998. 9 A.M._

After all the commotion yesterday, Ollivander expected business to be slow. Just like every day between October and July, he thought, with a twist of his lip. Just as great things were starting to happen. Again. Although perhaps it was better, the whole affair ending prematurely in failure. He'd never trusted Arthur, for all the man's fine talk and promises. Ollivander looked out at Diagon Alley. Already the shoppers were returning. Oblivious sheep.

Was there any evidence connecting him to Arthur? He congratulated himself on having insisted on private discussions. And that forelock-tugging boy of Arthur's wouldn't be squealing either, according to the paper. Not that it mattered, he thought. He was an institution. He was indispensable. Who would dare accuse Ollivander, the great wandmaker?

The bell over the shop door rang suddenly. Probably some fool who'd broken his wand trying magic above his abilities. Ollivander looked up. A plain young woman walked up to the counter.

"Mr. Ollivander?"

"Yes?"

"Sally-Anne Perks. Interim head of the DMLE. You are under arrest for arranging the sale of illicit wands."

Ollivander laughed hollowly, reaching slowly under the counter for his wand. Kingsley must be desperate, he thought, if this was the best he could field now. Was she that much of a fool, to come alone? She hadn't even drawn her wand. As his fingers touched wood, he heard a cough from behind and to his right.

He glanced around. Filius Flitwick, dueling champion, his wand very much drawn and pointed, shook his head slowly.

* * *

 _June 12th, 1998_

"... so I told him he was absolutely correct, and if there was any more trouble we'd be forced to ask the Salem Witches' Institute to get the American authorities involved as part of a new global policing cooperative. And he bought it," said Anthony Goldstein.

Everyone in the room laughed, the sort of laugh people give when they are experiencing a small amount of power for the first time and when using that power, or threatening to use it, is still a fresh pleasure and not yet a corrupting habit.

"I swear, his lower lip trembled," Anthony finished, his face flushed with excitement and pride.

Everyone laughed again. They were sprawled out on the solid oak and leather chairs in the conference room adjacent to the Minister's office. Blaise Zabini actually had his feet up on the long, polished table. The window today showed the early evening view west from The Shard. London Bridge was lit up. The door to the Minister's cluttered office was open but Kingsley wasn't there; he'd been putting in shorter hours recently. Perhaps that added a certain zest to their laughter, a sense that the old guard was making way. The unspoken attitude was that it was about time, too.

"All right, people," chided Sally-Anne gently from her seat halfway down the far side of the table.

Unconsciously or not, everyone was seated in the chairs closest to Sally-Anne's. She looked around before continuing. Zhu sat to her left, proud of being the old hand and clearly enjoying the attention she attracted. To Zhu's left sat Blaise, with his sly grin and insouciant air. Idly, Sally-Anne wondered if he was making a play for Zhu. Across the table were Sam and Anthony, one calm, the other bristling with eagerness. Finally, to Sally-Anne's right, sat Torvik, a recent Durmstrang graduate, and Andy. Sally-Anne had admired her ability and decided not to hold Andy's brief stint as a Weasley lieutenant against her. Arun was missing.

"Incremental integration ideas," continued Sally-Anne, trying to get her group back on track. "Throw them out: messy, absurd, whatever. Get them out there so we can discuss."

"And so we can mock them," drawled Blaise. "In a good-natured, Devil's Advocate sort of way, of course," he added, with just the right amount of injured innocence.

"Have you seen Arun?" whispered Sally-Anne to Zhu, ignoring Blaise. She refused to act as den mother; the group would work better with looser reins. Besides, other than Sam, she was practically the same age as everyone at the table. She was glad Robert Savage had taken Granger and Longbottom, but a little sorry for the Auror as well; their experience and reputation would likely make them difficult employees.

"Chain of shops based on Reparo," suggested Andy. Torvik groaned.

"How boring," he said, rolling his eyes. "We need to think bigger! Aguamenti for irrigation. We could invent a new condensation system that's advertised as highly technical, requiring company-certified installation and monitoring."

"He's around," whispered Zhu in response to Sally-Anne's question. "I'm sure he'll pop in shortly."

Sam finished jotting down the idea, then looked up. "Ambitious. Might work, if you can control access to the site."

"What's our perfectly reasonable explanation?" asked Zhu. "Are we creating black boxes? Waving a hand and invoking the miracle of technology?"

"Step three, profit!"

Everyone stopped and looked at Anthony, who blushed.

"Underpants gnomes? Really? No one?" Anthony slouched in his chair, crossing his arms. "Bunch of philistines, you are," he grumbled.

"I don't know," said Sally-Anne slowly, drawing the group's attention back to her. "I think the danger is success will invite scrutiny. What happens then?"

"Reverse engineering," Sam explained to the others. "First thing a competitor will do is try to buy the products we introduce, take them apart, figure out what's going on."

"And when they realize they're fakes, just cover for wizards to cast spells…" Andy trailed off.

"Exactly." Sam nodded. "Statute's blown."

"We could be the competition also," Blaise chimed in. "Create the appearance of conflict and have the trade secrets be closely guarded."

"What's that rule?" fumbled Anthony. "Any technology sufficiently advanced is indistinguishable from magic. Or something. So have a simple product and keep the supposed secret recipe — call it computer code or something — heavily guarded."

"What about healing spells? Little stuff, like Cheering Charms and, uh, Episkey?" asked Andy. "Place wizards as Muggle doctors."

"Barrier to entry is too high," objected Anthony. "We'd have to fake the credentials, which is risky, or wait years."

"Why not be blatant?" Blaise suggested. "Hide in plain sight. Hang out a shingle with a bunch of mystical mumbo jumbo that no Muggle believes in, so no one sticks their noses into it."

"What about customers?" pointed out Andy.

"No, that could work," said Zhu thoughtfully, then grimaced. "Muggles already use a lot of medicine and healing that doesn't work; it doesn't seem to stop them."

"Homeopathy," nodded Torvik.

"Yeah, then when it works people will just say it's the placebo effect or something." Anthony was getting excited again.

"Misdirection." Blaise snapped his fingers. "We could use banishing charms on toxic waste, but also create a really bad reputation for our firm so people assume we've dumping it..." Zhu arched an eyebrow at him. "But we're not," he finished.

"That's a high value service." Sam chewed on the idea for a minute. "Wizards would jump at the chance to join, which might solve the bad apple problem at the same time. Enough money would keep misuse of magic incidents to a minimum. Especially if they understand the party ends if our cover's blown. And it's boring. That's a good thing, by the way. Sorry, Torvik."

"I'll allow it as long as we get to have a love potion company. Dibs on head of R&D," said Torvik, half in jest. Everyone laughed again.

Arnie Peasegood came in with some files. "Have you heard the news?" he asked, clearly excited.

"We're all ears. As long as it's good news," joked Blaise.

"Someone leaked to the _Daily Prophet_. They're announcing a new permanent head of the DMLE tomorrow. Molly Weasley!" Arnie looked around the table as though expecting applause.

Sam looked at Sally-Anne with the whites of his eyes. She flinched.

* * *

 _June 12th, 1998_

Sally-Anne was still having trouble sleeping in their new flat. The noises were the issue, she decided; she wasn't used to them yet. That evening, long after her father had gone to bed, Sally-Anne tiptoed to the kitchen. She started to make a midnight sandwich, wrestling with new problems. She heard a crack and spun around, wand drawn.

Knabby folded his legs and sat down on the kitchen table. He looked at her with a challenging expression in his bright eyes.

"After much discussion, we believe we have determined a solution to your task," he said, without preamble.

Sally-Anne sank quietly into one of the chairs.

"Tell me," she said.

"We ignored the political problem; convincing our masters is beyond our power and deceits that result in freedom, such as clothes," Knabby made the word sound like a taboo, "would invite backlash.

"Our focus was on implementation," he continued. "And our general conclusions are three-fold. First, an incremental approach. One house elf at a time, with enough time in between emancipations for each house elf to acclimate to freedom. Second, work. Freedom won't change what you've bred us to do. Steady, meaningful employment must be guaranteed. Without work, without purpose, we'll destroy ourselves. Finally, community. Not just a fragile chain of mentors, but a village where we can live together and share our common problems and culture."

Knabby stared at Sally-Anne unblinkingly. "You implied you had the power to help us. We hear there will be a new head of your Ministry department. Perhaps one not so lenient or willing to overlook the power you have assumed."

"Let me worry about that." Sally-Anne swallowed. When had she started using such phrases? "The freedom of your people is too important to be stopped by political infighting." She smiled at the house elf. "Thank you for putting so much effort into a transition plan. And for trusting me to help you with it."

"You didn't notice what I didn't ask for." His tone was almost threatening. "Wands." Knabby watched Sally-Anne closely. "Why do you think the Trace was invented? Not for errant school children. Certainly you don't believe that convenient lie."

"I don't know," answered Sally-Anne. She was going to throttle Sam.

"The Trace was a weapon used to control us, from before we were house elves. There was a war, one you won't find in history books. We lost, despite our greater natural magic. Humans make use of what is useful. We were useful, if contrary." Knabby scowled. "So they bred the contrariness out of us, and neoteny in..." Sally-Anne didn't know what neoteny was, but didn't ask. There'd be time to look it up later.

"... just as Muggles bred proud wolves into obedient, floppy-eared dogs. But they left our magic. You will never convince a wizard to let us go if there is any chance we will acquire wands. So we do not ask for them.

"Knowing this, knowing the additional difficulties you will have in helping us, do you still wish to?" Knabby looked at her as though expecting betrayal.

"I do, " Sally-Anne said, and saw him relax, fractionally. "And I recently met someone who agrees with me; I think she can help."

* * *

 _June 12th, 1998_

Arun sat at his old desk outside the tiny office that Sally-Anne and Sam had once shared. It was almost midnight and he had to meet Zhu before work to practice. They were learning how to resist the Imperius. But he knew he wasn't going to be able to sleep, and he found the deserted Ministry peaceful.

It was so easy to be a follower, Arun thought. He'd been doing it for as long as he could remember. Doing his best to survive and succeed. Doing his best to earn a better life. Top marks at Hogwarts. A Ministry job right out of school. And now a trusted lieutenant to Sally-Anne Perks, who was clearly headed towards the top. And she was taking real action, trying to help Muggles, modernizing the Ministry.

So why had his trust in Sally-Anne started to crack?

Arun closed his eyes, seeing again Arthur's head. The bullet had left only a small red dot on the man's forehead. But coming out the back…

Arun knew Sally-Anne hadn't seen it, through the scope, and by the time Arthur had fallen she'd already been replacing Zhu at the Three Broomsticks. Sally-Anne hadn't seen the blood. Hadn't heard Percy scream, as though the son had lost his mind right there at the sight of his father's brains.

And now Molly Weasley would be the head of their department.

Arun opened his eyes. The question sat there in front of him and he finally asked it. What were the odds, forgetting everything else, that what Sally-Anne wanted to do to Arthur, _and_ what Sally-Anne was good at doing, _and_ what was right, were all the same thing? That they aligned so perfectly?

That was the sort of narrative-serving coincidence you only found in fiction. The excuse and the means to be awesome. Simultaneously.

 _Awesome_. He thought of Mark Regan's arm, laying peacefully on the floor.

Killing Arthur was supposed to have solved their problems. But now, with Molly, they had new ones. Were they going to kill her, too, to protect the progress they'd made? Or, if necessary, would Sally-Anne meekly stop working towards integration and stop trying to disperse power away from the Ministry? It was difficult to imagine.

Which side would he be on, if civil war broke out, again?

Sally-Anne had said acting based on consequences was immoral because predicting those consequences, and their second-order effects, was impossible. Molly's appointment was certainly evidence of that.

Sally-Anne had argued they had to act based on universal rules and duties, so that if everyone followed those rules — cooperated — everything would work out. But The Golden Rule was too subjective; it couldn't dictate actions consistently across situations and cultures. And there were no universally accepted objective rules. Sally-Anne had broken the best contender for that title, Thou Shalt Not Kill, at least twice. Would that make it easier for Sally-Anne to justify her next murder?

Arun didn't know the answer, but a creeping realization settled over him. The next time there was a war — if there was a next time — he wouldn't be able to blindly obey Sally-Anne. In the meantime, that meant he had to learn how to think for himself. Perhaps Zhu could help.

THE END

* * *

 _A/N: Any feedback, especially constructive criticism, would be greatly appreciated. Please tell me_ especially _what bored or confused you. I hope to do better next time. :)_


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